The Way Of Things
by Lampito
Summary: Sam and Dean are staying with Uncle Bobby while their Dad takes care of a job. Nowhere is completely safe for the Winchester boys, but an extra pair of eyes will watch out for them, from a most unlikely place. Wee!chesters. Sam's 8, Dean's 12. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT! Aeicha is determined to get a Wee!chester story out of me. Why, I have no idea. I don't like kids very much. But she is worse than Dean on a roll about the Virtues Of Pie. In fact, she _is_ a plot bunny, wearing a human skin. That's right, she found some poor unsuspecting human, and killed them, and skinned them, and is now walking around wearing that person's hide like a badly fitting Easter Bunny costume. We're onto you. You sick, sick individual. I'm not really sure if I can write Wee!chesters, but I'll give it a go. ANYTHING to MAKE HER STOP...

**Disclaimer:** No, they're not mine, but if they were, I'd let you hire them by the half hour (mate's rates for the Denizens). I'd charge a security deposit, though, for when I had to get lipstick stains out of their clothes. And you'd lose it if they came back bruised, scratched, or crying.

**Title:** The way Of Things

**Rating:** K+

**Summary:** Sam and Dean are staying with Uncle Bobby while their Dad takes care of a job. Nowhere is completely safe for the Winchester boys, but they have an extra pair of eyes to watch out for them, from the most unlikely place. Wee!chesters. Sam's eight, Dean's twelve.

**Blame:** As always, blame for this is borne ENTIRELY by the depraved, demanding, demented Denizens of the Jimiverse who just encourage me. And breed plot bunnies. And hide them in cakes, and send them to me.

* * *

><p>The rumble of a large engine came to her attention through the ground rather than via her ears; her hearing might not be what it once was, but she was still alert, recognising the noise. The end of her tail twitched in anticipation – that noise preceded the arrival of the two Young.<p>

It was warm in the sun. The younger dog was in his preferred snoozing spot, on the hood of a car body, which gave him a warm place to lounge and also a vantage point from which he could see a large area of the yard. It had been a long time since she'd joined him up there; her back legs were a bit wobbly, and arthritis twinged in her shoulders when it was cold, but she saw that he had detected the car's approach too, and was anticipating its arrival with pleasure.

_The Angry Hunter brings his Young_, he commented, joining her at ground level.

_All Hunters are angry_, she replied mildly, licking his muzzle fondly.

_Not like this one._ She knew he was right. _Shall I call a Warning?_ he asked.

_Of course,_ she instructed, _You are Guardian here_. They exchanged a brief growl-wrestle of friendship. In deference to her seniority, breeding and experience, he usually asked, although he would be within his rights to demand her submission. He was alpha here, in his prime. She was old enough – and useless enough now, she groused briefly to herself – to be his dam. She was old enough to have whelped his dam.

Rumsfeld set up a loud barking, warning of the car's approach, tail waving to signal the arrival of a known person. Kali sat, tongue lolling happily over her greyed muzzle, waiting patiently, enjoying the sun warming her old bones.

The large black car pulled into the yard, and rumbled to a halt. The smells assailed her – her nose had not aged along with the rest of her, remaining her most acute sense. The acrid tang of gunpowder, the piercing waft of solvent, the unmissable clean note of silver, scents she had known since she was a whelp, since she left her sire's pack, and chose her Hunter, her Alpha…

_[The pup nibbled curiously at the piece of rag she'd stolen from the garbage, then sneezed and snorted, shaking her head at the horrible taste. Her Hunter – her Alpha! – laughed, and scooped her up. "What are you doing with that?"__ he smiled at her expression, and she stopped snorting and started wiggling and yipping in his grasp, tail wagging enthusiastically. "It's gun cleaning solvent. It's nasty stuff. But I guess you just learned that, huh?" She kissed his nose, and he ruffled her ears and they rassled with her fluffy hippo, and she never tried to taste anything that smelled of solvent ever again]_

The old bitch shook her head as the memory receded. So long ago, so long ago, but sometimes it felt like just a few weeks before, that she was a pup, growing, learning, then taking her Place beside her Hunter, a Hunter's dog…

A new set of smells brought her out of her reverie: soap, and sticky-sugar and pencils. She pricked up her ears as the Hunter went to meet her Keeper, and his two Young climbed out of the car. Her tail started wagging, and she whuffed a little to them, cloudy old eyes dancing, trotting forward to meet them.

**oooooOOOOOooooo oooooOOOOOooooo oooooOOOOOooooo oooooOOOOOooooo**

"Dean! Sam!" John called to the two boys as they made a beeline for the dogs, "Don't pester the dogs!"

"It's okay, John," smiled Bobby, "The fire's long gone out of the old girl, and Rumsfeld knows them both. Mind how you play, boys," he called down to the scrum of two dogs and two boys that was forming, "Rumsfeld can play rough, and Kali is an old lady now."

None of the giggling, woofing participants in what looked like a game of Twister with some very interesting improvised rules paid him any attention. Rumsfeld sprang from a play-bow into a leap, knocking eight-year-old Sam to the ground. The kid just laughed harder as Kali moved in stiffly, the elderly German Shepherd apparently intent on licking him into submission. Dean pulled his little brother back to his feet, and turned to scratch Rumsfeld's belly as the Rottweiler put his feet on the twelve-year-old's shoulders. Sam hugged Kali, burying his face in her thick ruff, as she wagged her tail and sniffed at his hair, licking the top of his head.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure the two-legged ones come inside to sleep," Bobby reassured John. "Now, come on in, and tell me what you know about this thing."

"It's not the first time this town has had a rash of unexplained disappearances," started John, following Bobby indoors.

Outside, the wrestling match petered out into a comfortable sprawl in the sun. Dean used Rumsfeld as a backrest, and Kali sprawled with her head in Sam's lap.

"How long will we stay with Uncle Bobby?" asked Sam a little plaintively, patting the grizzled old head while the dog humphed in contentment.

"Until Dad finishes the job, Sam, you know that," replied Dean, still ticked off about being left behind. His father had been adamant that he was not quite yet ready to Hunt, especially when they had no idea exactly what they were up against.

"He will… he will come back, right?" Sam said hesitantly. He'd been anxious for their father since he'd found out what their Dad's 'work' really involved, and Dean heard the real question under the enquiry. _He's not going to die, is he? Like Mom?_

"Course he will, squirt," Dean snorted derisively, "He always comes back. Though I could understand if he wanted to leave you behind, sometime, what with you being such an annoying little pest."

"I am not!" retorted Sam. "I'm the good one," he continued a big smugly, "I don't get in trouble at school."

"Neither do I, Sammy," Dean told him, "It's just that sometimes I have… misunderstandings."

"Like when you misunderstood Kieran at the end of term?" Sam queried, recalling being mortified when Dean beat the crap out of the oversized underbrained classmate who'd had the temerity to tease Sam about his Goodwill clothes.

"I didn't misunderstand him, Sammy," corrected Dean, "He misunderstood me. I told him to leave you alone, and he clearly didn't understand plain English. Some people just speak Fist better than English. Kieran was one of those people."

"What about Jenny, then?" probed Sam slyly. "Were you, _ahem_, 'misunderstanding' her behind the library?"

Dean's face was carefully blank. "I have no idea what you're rambling about, squirt." He and Rumsfeld settled more comfortably together.

"Cause I wouldn't call that misunderstanding," declared Sam, "I'd call that kissing. It was gross."

"Well, if it was kissing, and you were hiding somewhere watching, that makes you a perv," replied Dean.

"I was in the library, on the top shelf, helping Miss Davies put the books back before break," Sam told him primly, and I _saw_. I couldn't _help_ it, you were right there, outside the window. Mr Harrington saw, too. _He_ clearly thought it was kissing." He picked up a stick, and started drawing on the ground with it. "Does Daddy know you kiss girls?" he asked innocently.

Dean's poker face remained firmly in place. "He hasn't asked, so I haven't told him," he answered carefully.

"Aha!" Sam said triumphantly, "He doesn't know, does he?" He grinned at Dean.

"Maybe he does, I dunno, but don't you go telling him," he said.

"I won't," promised Sam, stroking Kali's fur, "If you give me half the M&Ms you have stuffed in your pack."

"What?" Dean looked puzzled. "I don't have any M&Ms in my pack."

"Yes you do," insisted Sam, "You lifted them at the gas station when we stopped a couple of hours ago. M&Ms, that pocket knife key ring, and… that _magazine_." Sam pronounced the word as though it tasted dirty. "Wrapped in _plastic_. Why do you want to look at ladies with no clothes on, anyway? You're weird."

"Okay, okay," Dean held his hands up in surrender, "I'll share the M&Ms with you, but I want you to know, I'll never forget the way you're blackmailing me."

"This isn't blackmailing, Dean," Sam smiled sunnily, "We're just having a… misunderstanding."

"Bitch," growled Dean.

"Jerk," grinned Sam.

"You know what happens to blackmailers, Sam?" frowned Dean seriously.

"Usually, they get money, but I'll be happy with M&Ms," replied his brother airily.

"No," Dean's grin was predatory, "They get… tickled!"

Rassling, barking, shrieking and general hijinks ensued.

**oooooOOOOOooooo oooooOOOOOooooo oooooOOOOOooooo oooooOOOOOooooo**

"So, Sam knows, then," said Bobby. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, Sam knows," confirmed John, his voice tired. "In a way, it's a relief, but at the same time…"

"Yeah," agreed Bobby. He smiled ruefully. "At least now, maybe I can let him start lookin' at some books. The kid's been pestering me about them since, well, since he was old enough to pester."

"It'll keep him quiet, at least," agreed John. He stood, putting his coffee mug on the sink, and glanced out the window. His sons and the two dogs were engaged in a tug of war, Sam and Rumsfeld at one end of a long piece of frayed rope, Dean and the old Shepherd at the other. There was a lot of shouting, and laughing, and accusations of cheating.

It looked achingly normal.

"I'd best get on my way," he told Bobby, "I'll get the boys to bring their gear in."

"They'll be fine, John," Bobby reassured him, "They always are. They're safe here. The place is warded, the dogs stick close to 'em, and Dean always has at least one eye on Sam."

"I know." He watched his boys play. "When I've taken care of this, I may have another lead..." he started.

"You go follow it up, John, just keep me posted," said Bobby, sighing inwardly. The merest whisper of information about the yellow-eyed demon would have John on the trail, like a bloodhound that would track obsessively until it worked itself to death.

Ten minutes later, the Impala rumbled out of the yard. Sam, Dean and Bobby stood to wave goodbye.

"How long will he be gone, Uncle Bobby?" Sam asked again.

"Well, it'll probably be a week at least to take care of this job," Bobby answered as reassuringly as he could, "Then he has some information that he has to go check out after that, but he'll be back here as quick as he can." Sam's face fell. "Come on, buck up, I'm sure we can find you things to keep you occupied while you're here." Bobby played his high card. "I got some books I've been meanin' to sort through, maybe you could help me out with that, Sam."

Sam looked up, his eyes wide. "I can… I can come and look at your books?" he asked in amazement.

"Sure, if you'd like to," Bobby assured him. Sam's face lit up like a chocoholic offered the title deed to a cocoa plantation.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Jeez, you caught a bad case of nerd when you were just a toddler," he grumped as bobby shepherded them indoors. "There should be antibiotics or something for that. Antinerdotics. An extra-strong dose."

"Never mind, Dean," said Sam dismissively, "While I read real books, you can read your… _magazine_…"

Bobby watched The Look that passed between the Winchester boys bemusedly, and wondered, not for the first time, whether it was true that insanity was hereditary: people caught it from their kids.

**oooooOOOOOooooo oooooOOOOOooooo oooooOOOOOooooo oooooOOOOOooooo**

The Young would be staying at the yard for a while, she thought, relaxing again in the sun. That would be enjoyable. They liked to be with the dogs, they liked to play. The smaller one was very tactile, always wanting to pet, stroke, be near. And sometimes, if she looked particularly endearing, the Keeper would let her indoors, where she could curl up on a warm rug, and be near them

While they were here, she always felt that sense of purpose stir: _Protect. Protect your Hunter._

They weren't Hunters of course. They were a Hunter's Young, though, and there was something about each of them, something that made her want to stick close to them.

_Protect._

It had been trained into her, bred into her – just because she was old (_it should never have come to this_) and her body was aged (_it should never have come to this_), that didn't mean she didn't feel that instinct, that drive.

_I am a Hunter's dog_, she told herself, remembering what she had learned at her Dam's flank, before she was old enough to understand what it meant, _A Hunter's dog. We Hunt. We protect. Protect your Hunter. We will kill to protect the Hunter. We will die to protect the Hunter. For Hunter's dogs, this is the way of things._

She let out a long, contented sigh. Right now, the sun was warm, and she was comfortable. The Young would be here. They would play, and argue, and squabble, and get into things they shouldn't, just like pups did. She would stay near, and watch. It felt very…_ right_.

_This is the way of things._

She yawned, dropped her muzzle to her paws, and snoozed.

* * *

><p>My Grandmother had West Highland White Terriers for my entire life. Every single one of them was called Princey. When one died, she'd just get another one, and carry on as though nothing had changed. I lost count, but I'm pretty sure there were at least six. In the Jimiverse, Bobby is like that with his Rottweilers. Donald Rumsfeld must've impressed him with his first stint as Secretary of State, or possibly even before that.<p>

If I continue with this one, I do NOT want to hear any carry-on from the Denizens about it if I'm trying to make progress with 'Piening For The Ones We Can't Save'. I can only stomp one plot bunny at a time, and the Update Inspiration Fairy is sluggish in the cold weather (winter has really hit Down Here this week). And I'm afraid that I absolutely, positively cannot write gargoyles or nerdy scientifc angels (Sheldon!Cas?) into this one. Not without snapping a con rod in the TARDIS.

Reviews are the German Shepherd Cuddles on the Sofa Of Life! (and German Shepherd cuddles are _awesome_.)


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, since I've had a few positive comments on this one, I'll have a go at turning it into an honest-to-Cas story. It's shaping up to be something different from the sort of crack I usually seem to end up writing, but some of the Denizens seem to be very fond of Wee!chesters, and I'm up for any excuse to write more about canine characters. In answer to Paralesky's question, Kali in this story is, I think, an amalgam of two dogs I had when I was a kid, Penny and Macushla - certainly, I get a mental picture of Mac as an old lady when I'm writing. Kali is the kennel name of my current dog (if you'd seen what she did to my study then the back yard within the first 24 hours of her joining us, you'd understand why), who's nearly two and a half, and showing no signs of growing up yet... If anyone thinks I'm writing either Weechester too precociously, you'll have to speak up, because I have little experience with children and this is my first foray into WoW (World of Wee!chesters) - but somehow, I can't help but think that Sam must've been a precocious kid with a capacity for brat.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

She lifted her head, and shook it. She'd been dozing again, hovering between waking and dreaming as elderly dogs had a tendency to do (_it should never have come to this_). Something prickled for her attention.

She sat up, more alert, looking for the Guardian. He was lying on the hood of the truck, senses nonetheless watchful as he rested. He noticed her posture, and made his way to her side, where they exchanged an affectionate growl-wrestle, and turned his head in the direction of her cloudy gaze.

_Intruder? Threat?_ His gaze queried.

_I am... uncertain,_ she told him.

He concentrated, his nose twitching as he scented the air. _I find nothing._ It was an observation made agreeably; he might be the Guardian, and alpha in this place, but he was, after his own fashion, a Hunter's dog, and not one to ignore the instincts of a bitch of the Blood. She lifted her greyed muzzle to the air, and he felt it burn in her, dulled by her age and infirmity, but still there and pulsing. He whined a little to himself; in her prime, she must have been a savage, terrifying opponent...

_I will keep watch_, he told her, returning to his resting place, but sitting upright, still and alert, monitoring the air and the ground for tells of threat, ready to call a Warning.

She tried to settle again, then rose, and paced restlessly.

Still her Blood burned.

As briskly as she could, Kali trotted to the front door, scratching and woofing as crisply as her rasping old voice allowed.

The Keeper let her in without question.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Bobby didn't say anything when the old dog went straight to the living room and settled herself where she could see both Dean, who was sitting unusually quietly with a handful of issues of _Popular Mechanics _and a greasy dog-eared workshop manual, and Sam, who was taking full advantage of being allowed access to a selection of Bobby's library.

"What are you reading, Uncle Bobby?" asked Sam, looking up from the book he was currently perusing. He'd become fascinated by the protective sigils in the book on protection charms that Bobby had given him, and had been practising drawing some of them with the box of pencils he'd won on the last day of school for writing the best story in his class.

"Tell you the truth, son, I'm not exactly sure yet," Bobby replied.

Sam moved his chair, and climbed up beside him. "That looks... funny," he frowned, peering at the gothic script. "Why does the printing look so funny?"

"Well, for a start, this is a very old book," explained Bobby. "It was written before there was such thing as printing, so it was copied out by hand. This is just the way everybody wrote, back then."

Sam was tracing the ornate letters with one finger, trying to decipher the ornate font. "U..t.. ut, exp... exp..e..l..f.. expelf.. i..f.. ut expelfif... d..a.. da..ee...dayee..m..."

Dean sniggered on the sofa. Bobby shot him a sharp look, and pointed out the words to Sam.

"Ut expulsis daemonibus abundans cautela non nocet," he read.

Sam looked confused. "They're 'f's," he complained, "And those aren't real words."

"That's how people wrote 's's then," Bobby told him, "And this bit is written in a language called Latin. See? 'Ut expulsis daemonibus' – that's 'when you're banishing demons' – 'abundans cautela non nocet', 'you can never be too careful'."

"Why didn't he write it in English?" Sam wanted to know.

"Well, the guy who wrote this was German, so he wouldn't have spoken English," Bobby went on. "Even if he had, it wouldn't be a form of English that you could understand easily. Latin was a common language that educated people used to talk to one another."

"Do demons speak English?" Sam asked.

"Well, yes," Bobby felt a sad pang that an eight-year-old would ask such a question, "They understand lots of languages, but Latin was the language of the church for hundreds of years. Still is, in some places. That's why it's particularly powerful when you're dealin' with the things that go bump in the night. The things your Dad chases down. Including demons."

Sam still looked confused. "That's a different number of words," he stated doubtfully, going back over the sentence. "Which word means 'you'?"

"Well, there isn't actually a word for 'you' in that sentence," Bobby smiled. "It's implied – its sorta included in the other words, and assumed that the reader will figure it out."

Sam stared uncomprehendingly at the strange words. "How are you supposed to figure it out?" he demanded.

Bobby cocked an eyebrow at him. "Kid," he drawled, "Are you really sure you want to know?"

"Yes!" answered Sam emphatically. Bobby mentally kicked himself – he had only himself to blame. Asking Sam Winchester if he really wanted to learn something was like putting a freshly slaughtered gazelle in front of a starving lion and asking it "Are you really sure you want to eat that?"

"Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem," muttered Dean.

"What did he say?" demanded Sam.

"That was, 'In ancient times, children like you were left to perish on windswept crags'," translated Bobby, with a dispproving glare. "Some people, such as your brother, are not willing scholars of Cicero's tongue."

"Who's Cicero?" asked Sam.

"Who was Cicero," replied Bobby, starting to feel a bit like he was trapped in a strange TV game show that was a combination of Jeopardy, It's Academic and Blankety Blanks, "Cicero was a Roman philosopher."

"Where did he roam?" pressed Sam. "Was he on vacation?"

"Not 'roamin',' Sam, 'Roman'." Bobby felt his brain lean into the turn as the conversation took off on a tangent. "From Rome. Where they spoke Latin."

"Rome is in Georgia," Sam said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at Bobby. "I went to school there, and the books were not printed like that." He pulled an expression that would, ten years later, mature into what Dean would come to think of as a Sam Bitchface from the Classical Period. It suggested that he suspected Bobby of trying to prank him. "They talked funny, but it wasn't Latin. I could still understand them. Mostly."

"No, no, Rome, as in, ancient Rome," Bobby tried again, wondering if this was what John had to deal with all the time, "Rome was an ancient civilisation in Italy."

"Italy is shaped like a boot," said Sam, on firmer ground now, "I've seen a map. Did they roam around in boots?"

"No, boots weren't invented then," Bobby's brain pulled a handbrake turn in a bid to keep up. "They wore a sort of sandal, called a caliga."

Sam looked perplexed again. "Dean calls me that," he stated, looking at his brother. "Why do you call me that?"

"I don't call you that, Sam," Dean still didn't look up from his magazine, "I call you 'canicula'."

"What's a canicula, then?" Sam demanded. "Bobby, what's a canicula?"

_Balls_, the Hunter thought to himself. "It's a feminine diminutive of the word 'canis'," he replied, "And before you ask, if you learn some Latin, you'll learn what..."

Sam wasn't paying attention. His face was creased in thought in the way that indicated that Sammy Is Working Something Out. "Feminine means female," he mused to himself, "And diminutive means little. I know that, I got it right when I won the spell bee last term..." realisation struck, and he glared at his brother. "You've been calling me a little girl!" he shouted in accusation.

"No he hasn't!" Bobby corrected hastily, "Have you, Dean?"

Dean looked up, looking hurt. "No, Sammy," he said in a sad voice, "I would never call you a little _girl_, no matter how long your hair gets." He paused. _Oh no, _thought Bobby,_ here comes the punchline..._ "It's Latin for 'little bitch'."

"I knew it!" howled Sam angrily, "I know it was something mean, 'cause of the way you smirk when you say it!" He turned back to Bobby. "I want to learn Latin," he declared, "So I can be rude right back at him!"

Okay, then, okay," sighed Bobby, taking his hat off and scratching his head. "I can start teaching you a bit about Latin."

"Didn't their feet get cold if they roamed around in sandals?" asked Sam curiously. "It snows in Italy. I've seen pictures." He looked unhappy. "I wouldn't want to go on vacation in the snow if I was roaming around in sandals."

"I think I may just have a primer in my study that might be helpful," Bobby's smile was just a little bit too cheerful as he gritted his teeth.

"Ecce fiber fervidus," intoned Dean portentiously. _Behold the eager beaver_.

"Maybe Dean would like to join us for some grammar revision," Bobby suggested casually, "God knows, his use of the subjunctive needs work."

"Or I could get out of your way and amuse myself totally harmlessly, while putting my reading to good practical use in a constructive, wholesome way," trilled Dean, waving the workshop manual.

"Sounds like a plan," Bobby relented. "You call me if you decide you want to try welding anything, you hear?"

"Yes, Bobby," Dean replied dutifully, getting to his feet. The old dog, who had been snoozing in a the sunbeams, climbed laboriously to her paws, and was under his feet. "Hey!" he stepped awkwardly to avoid tripping over her. "Bobby, can you call Kali?"

"Let her out if she wants to go," Bobby told him, turning back to sort through one of the teetering piles of books that littered his house, "She knows where she needs to be."

"Yeah, but she's getting a bit, well, old, and, she gets underfoot, and…"

"You got a Wildhunt dog decides to keep an eye on your sorry carcass, boy, you don't question it," Bobby's voice was suddenly hard, his eyes boring into Dean. "She may be old, but she knows her job. You pay attention to anything she has to tell you."

"Uh… yes, Bobby," Dean was startled at the vehemence of Bobby's tone. He looked down at the grey muzzle beside him; the hazy old eyes were watching him keenly. "Come on then, girl," he smiled as he patted her affectionately, and they both left, Kali sticking close to Dean's left leg.

"Aha!" Bobby brandished a tattered hardcover triumphantly. "Here it is. Now, Sam," he began, opening the book as the younger Winchester sat beside him and peered eagerly at the musty page, "Latin is a language that is highly inflected. That means, lots of the words have changing endings that tell you a lot about them, so you can squash a few words in English into one word in Latin. That's why you don't have to have the word 'you', in Latin."

"Like feminine and diminutive?" queried Sam.

"Yeah," Bobby replied, "Exactly like that." Jesus, there were times when the speed of the kid's brain just plain scared him.

"Does Latin really work on demons?" Sam wanted to know.

Bobby sighed. "Yeah, on a lot of them. There are special chants you can use that frighten 'em all the way back to Hell." Sam looked worryingly thoughtful. "But there's a lot more stuff you can read in Latin. You know what a verb is?" Sam nodded. "Okay, well, let's look at how Latin verbs work…"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Dean made good his escape to Bobby's workshop, letting out a sigh of relief. Sam seemed to have worked himself into a state of nerdgasm over reading lists of Latin verb forms, for Christ's sake – Bobby had explained the concepts of conjugation and inflection, and the little geek practically peed himself in excitement, babbling on about the patterns of –are and –ere and –ire verbs, as if those endless columns of dead language were the most interesting thing invented since the female form. Speaking of which...

Checking again to make sure that he was alone, he pulled_ that_ magazine out from its hiding place, in a small space under the floor. It was a very interesting magazine, full of thought-provoking pictures. In fact, thoughts weren't all it provoked; the last thing he wanted was for Sammy to find it, or worse, Bobby, or even worse again, Dad...

He cast a critical eye over the wrecked mower on the bench. Bobby had told him he could use whatever bits of otherwise useless stuff he could find around the place; the deal was, if he got the mower running with nothing but junk, they would sell it, and Dean would keep the proceeds. He opened the mechanics magazine at the article on two-stroke engines, and looked at the diagrams again.

Maybe he'd just have a good look at_ that _other magazine before he got started on his project...

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

She sat, relaxing in a sunny spot, dozing. Whether she dreamed, or swam through memory, she wasn't sure; her recollections were of the Hunt, and the Blood...

_There was a bitch, a giant dog, who left the wild and chose a Hunter__..._ She and her littermates had drunk in the stories with their Dam's milk. _She was savage, and fearless. Her teeth rent the dead things, the undead things, the wrong things... her breeding time came, and she confronted the Beast in the Hunt, faced him down, challenged him, goaded him, demanded his Blood for her line. She whelped a single pup by the Beast, a bitch, and that pup carried the Blood of the Pit. She was your longDam, my longDam. She chose a Hunter, and she Hunted until she was old, and grizzled, and could barely see, but she mated and whelped, and the bitch-pups became longDams of the Blood, so when she left her matter behind, she left her line, and she left us the Blood. We are savage, and fearless. You will choose your Hunters, you will protect your Hunter, you will die for you Hunter, for we are Hunters' dogs, and this is the way of things..._

_It was a nest of vampires, the dead-things that smelled wrong-wrong-wrong and killed and killed and killed. She had been a young adult, had taken her Place beside her Hunt__er that day, her Alpha, and they fell before his blade and her savagery, screaming and bleeding as she tore into them. Her Blood had burned at their mere presence, and howled with joy at the red rending and tearing and the crunch of bone and dead meat in her jaws. Her eyes had danced with red sparks, and her Hunter had praised her and she basked in his love and knew truly what it meant that she would die protecting him..._

_She was older, she was old, and she was not as fast as she used to be, though still savage __and fearless in the Hunt, but something was wrong, the scents were wrong, and it wasn't the dead-things, it was so much worse, then there was the stench and there were too many. One of the black-eyed monsters had thrown her against a wall, and her ageing body broke. Her Hunter sprung the trap, and sent them back, but not before he was badly wounded. She crawled to his side, and whined, and licked his face, and he stroked her blood-matted fur and told her she was a good girl, even as he left his matter and she longed for him to call her, but she had survived, and it should never have come to this, and she was left behind, without her Hunter, and her Blood still burned but there was nothing but pain and grief and the smell of his blood, and sulphur... the smell of sulphur..._

Her Blood burned.

She lifted her head, and growled, a low, rumbling noise that travelled through the ground, and brought the Guardian to her side.

_Where?_ was all he asked, barely pausing to take direction before he set off, stalking silently and quickly through the maze of the yard. She felt a small stab of approval; no noisy headlong rush, but a stealthy approach. She would be proud of such sense in one of her whelps.

He returned, exchanging greeting with her. _Fresh scent_, he reported.

_Human?_ She wanted to know.

_Yes. But…_

_Other?_ She prompted him.

The Guardian shook his head. _I am uncertain. Flight. Concealment._

She licked his muzzle fondly. _You are a Hunter's dog. We will watch._

_I do not carry the Blood_, he told her, _Call Warning if you must._ He returned to the shade of the truck, and sat watchfully.

She took up her station just outside the shed. She was too old _(it should never have come to thi_s) but she would watch the Hunter's Young. She was a Hunter's dog, and that was the way of things.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Ambulo, ambulos, ambulot, ambulamus, ambulatis, ambulant. Ambulance!" Sam improvised at the end of his conjugation of 'to walk'.

"Yeah, okay, smartypants," grinned Bobby. "The word 'ambulance' actually comes from 'ambulare'."

"How does it get to 'ambulance' from the word for 'walk'?" Sam wanted to know.

"It also means to move around," Bobby told him. "Now, does that freaky sponge of a brain remember 'to be' and 'to go'?"

"Sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt," chanted Sam. "Eo, is, it, imus, itus, eunt. They don't follow the pattern, 'cause they're irregular."

"That's right," confirmed Bobby. He reached for the page he'd prepared while Sam had greedily read lists of present tense verb conjugations. "Now, the thing about Latin is, you can put the words in pretty much any order you like…"

Under the trucker's cap, the drawl and the overall impression of being redneck enough to have long underwear double as his swimming costume, Bobby Singer was actually no intellectual slouch. He was a go-to man for a large network of Hunters when they encountered something they couldn't work out. He had the most extensive occult library in North America. He'd forgotten more lore than most Hunters ever knew.

He once spent a week on a deadline teaching himself enough Sumerian to rewrite a counter-curse that hadn't been spoken for three thousand years. He'd concocted so many spells and counter-spells, often at extremely short notice and practically from scratch and sometimes with a terrifying amount of improvisation required, that the witches' social group 'Babes on Broomsticks' had made him an honorary member. He once talked a younger Hunter through dispatching a particularly ancient, persistent and bloodthirsty spirit over the phone, while helping one of his dogs through a difficult whelping, while they were huddling in the basement as a tornado approached.

However, trying to write a Latin reader for an intelligent eight-year-old to practise basic pronunciation and simple sentence structures was a challenge. He suspected "Winnie the Pooh" just wouldn't cut it for Sam Winchester, so he'd had to improvise. He was reasonably happy with Lesson One…

"Puellae filiae agricolarum sunt," read Sam. The girls are the daughters of farmers.

"Puellae pulchrae sunt." The girls are pretty.

"Nautas in via spectant." They see the sailors in the street.

"Nautae pulchri sunt." The sailors are hunks.

"Puellae nautas salutant." The girls greet the sailors.

"O malam fortunam!" Oh, what bad luck!

"Nautae cadaverosi automatarii sunt." The sailors are zombie robots.

"Nautae ad puellas digitos impudicos porrigunt." The sailors flip the girls the bird.

"Puellae nautas appellant." The girls call out to the sailors.

"Speramus naviculam misellam vestram ad scopulum adlisam iri summersum." We hope your stupid ship hits a rock and sinks.

"Puellae in forum sescendere destinant et ibi mercimonium furari." The girls decide to go to the mall and shoplift. "

Omnes mulierculae sunt." They are all bimbos.

He looked up from Bobby's hastily prepared text, and smiled. "That's a pretty cool story," he commented. "I could draw you a picture of the sailors in their boat," he suggested.

"That would be great, Sam," smiled Bobby, pleased that his first effort as an educational children's author had gone over so well. Maybe he could continue the theme of the pretty farmers' daughters and the zombie robot sailors in Lesson Two, have them meet up in the shopping mall and make conversation – what's your name, where do you live, what's your star sign, will decapitation kill you… Lesson Three could see them head for the food court: I would like some salad, I would like some chicken, I would like some fresh brains… If they got arrested for shoplifting in Lesson Four, that would be a good opportunity to introduce the imperative form…

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

There was an almost audible 'click' somewhere in Dean's head the moment he _saw_ it.

It made sense in the diagram – the neat series of pictures in the magazine, demonstrating the two-stroke combustion cycle. Pressurisation in the crank, movement of the piston, the fuel moving through the ports in the cylinder, and the pressure wave from the exhaust keeping the fuel intake in the bore until the spark fired…

But looking at it, with the pieces of the junked lawnmower engine there under his hands, he moved the piston in the bore, and he _saw_. He could see _how_ it worked. How it was supposed to work.

Fitting pieces together into a coherent pattern, be they pieces of engine or pieces of information, was a talent that Dean Winchester would grow into, and hone to a fine art, but once he was an adult it would never be as exciting a revelation as the rusted pieces set out before him. Suddenly, the idea of making a profit from his own efforts didn't seem nearly as satisfying as the way the mechanical workings, the reasons, the _how,_ unfolded in front of him. A logically linked series of steps marched obediently past his understanding.

He consulted one of the magazines again, and then, with the systematic deliberation he would later grow into using when cleaning his weapons or working on a car, he selected some tools and set about cleaning the rust and gunk from the pieces laid out on the shop rags.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The burn of her Blood had subsided. She wanted to think she'd imagined it, that it was just another blurring between waking and dreaming… she heard the Hunter's Young yelp. He'd hurt himself, but it didn't deter him from whatever he was doing.

Kali repositioned herself on the floor just inside the door of the shed, muzzle on her paws, and watched the Hunter's Young learning, curious as a pup. Occasionally he hissed or yelped, making some mistake, but it felt very_ right._ She left him to it. After all, how was a pup supposed to learn except by experience? _This is the way of things_, she thought, with a contented yawn.


	4. Chapter 4

Gaudeamus igitur - ah, the Latin of our education. 'Lux mea christus' - that was my secondary school's motto, 'Christ my light', changed by the less devout amongst us to 'Podex mea christus', or "Christ my arse'. (It was a high Anglican girls' school, so it was prudent for the atheists to keep their heads down; it was our equivalent of a secret handshake.) Then there's 'Postera Crescam Laude', motto of the University of Melbourne - 'I shall be held in growing esteem by future generations.' Suitably up itself for the Australian university second most up itself in the country... now, what exactly might a twelve-year-old with a selection of magazines at his disposal get up to in the workshop?

As Bartlebead has discerned and others have no doubt worked out, I'm not really with the Samgirls or Deangirls, I'm over there with the Bobbywimmen. Now, have Singer washed and brought to my cabin, I like a man who can give great mind, heh heh...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter <strong>**4**

There was a sudden mechanical wheezing, spluttering, clattering sound from the yard outside, and a prolonged bout of coughing and swearing. Bobby looked up to see large clouds of thick blue smoke drifting past the window.

"Well, I'll be," he muttered, "Looks like your brother actually got that piece of junk going."

"What's a wildheart dog?" Sam non-sequitur-ed his way into a completely different direction as he drew.

"Hmmmm?" Bobby tried to catch up.

"You said Kali is a wildheart dog," Sam repeated, "When she followed Dean. What does that mean?"

"Ah, that's Wild_hunt_ dog," Bobby clarified. "She was bred at Wildhunt, a kennel that breeds very special dogs. Kali was… is a Hunter's dog."

"Like Rumsfeld?" asked Sam.

"Oh, she's very different to Rumsfeld," Bobby grinned, "In her heyday, she'd have torn him to shreds if he got in her way."

Sam's eyes went wide. "But, but she's… she's…"

"Old, and creaky, and half-blind?" Bobby finished. His smile was sad. "Yup, that she is."

"Is that why she came to live with you?" Sam pressed. "Because she's too old to Hunt any more? Did her Hunter get a younger dog?"

Bobby sighed. "Her Hunter died, Sam," he said quietly. "He was up against some real nasty things, and, well, they beat him. It's rare for a Hunter's dog to get old," he went on, "They'll die to protect their Hunter. It's bred into 'em. But Charlie was a friend, and he made me promise that if… I told him he was an idjit, 'cause dogs never outlive their Hunters, but…" he stopped, remembering the grief of the call he'd hoped he'd never get: the trip through the night, building a pyre for another friend, and bringing home the injured dog, already a grizzled veteran, who'd pleaded with her eyes for a merciful death so she could follow her Hunter, but he'd promised Charlie, so here she was…

"What makes her different?" Sam cut into his musings.

Bobby chose his words carefully. "She has very rare bloodlines," he answered, "Very specialised instincts. There's only a few places breed dogs like her." He watched the kid's face – he was Working Things Out again.

"Why is she sticking so close to Dean?" he asked, peering keenly up at Bobby. Damn, one of these days, that brain was gonna overheat and explode.

"Because she knows an idjit who could do with a bit of extra supervision when she sees one," he said gruffly, hoping it would be enough. "Dogs can be very sensitive to… all sorts of things. Sometimes, your brother broadcasts 'idjit' in the megawatt range. She's another pair of eyes, and she's as sharp as a tack, despite her looks," he continued when Sam kept staring at him, clearly not diverted. "There's nothing can harm you boys here. Not with the house warded, and Rumsfeld and Kali in the yard. Anything out there that got past them would have to get past me. And that just aint gonna happen."

Another burst of swearing, a gust of blue smoke, and a distinct cracking sound echoed through the yard outside.

"Personally, I think that one day your brother is going to launch himself into orbit or just pass out from terminal idjitry," Bobby confided. Sam giggled at that. "Now, why don't you get on with that picture, then we can look at some more vocabulary, and I'll make a start on our next lesson: how to introduce yourself to a zombie robot sailor…"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean scowled, and jerked his hand back – the jagged end of the broken con rod cut his thumb – but he quickly forgot that as he mused over his next step. For about thirty seconds, before the thing tore itself apart, it had run harder and faster than it had ever been designed to do. Dean had never heard of a 'porting and polishing' – the words 'head job' would come to mean something entirely different to him within just a couple of years. He'd never heard of engine blueprinting, or wave dynamic timing, but he could _see_ how burring out the ports _there_ and _there_ on the cylinder and piston, and swapping that part out for another he'd scavenged, and knocking in one side of the exhaust outlet _there_ would make it run better. It just made sense…

He downed his lunch quickly, scribbling and doodling on a notepad, barely registering surprise when Sam asked him, in simple but passable Latin, "If I cut your head off, will you stay dead?" ("Dude, what the hell? What are you trying to kill?" "Well, zombie robot sailors, actually…"). He'd begged permission to use a couple of power tools, then headed outside, Kali silently shadowing him again.

He'd found the parts he needed in the junk of the yard, crawling under piles of tangled scrap and into the metal bins and nearly scalping himself in pulling some blades off another mower, but eventually he had what he needed. He had to alter some of them, which was a lot easier with the metal reaming bit on the drill than using a file, then patiently smooth them back, but eventually, he had his engine ready to go. Holding his breath, he yanked on the starter cord…

It roared into loud, high-pitched life, spitting blue smoke and whirring ominously. He grinneed in delight when it held idle, and conspicuously did not self-destruct. He released the rusty wheel brake, and experimentally gave it a push across a patch of weedy ground.

Greenery flew backwards, coating his jeans. He laughed, and pushed it across another strip. The machine denuded another line of ground.

He cut the engine. It was clearly working. Bobby would make good on his promise, but… he looked speculatively at the half-crushed ride-on he'd salvaged the plugs and rings from. It worked, but he could make it better…

It was upside down on the workbench when Bobby came out in response to Dean's request for some welding. He had the pieces ready to go, and had even drawn a clear diagram of what he wanted. Slightly bemused, but pleased that Dean had so far been responsible in his tinkering, Bobby quickly made the requested joins, then headed back inside. He exchanged a look with Kali, who sat unobtrusively in the shed. _This is how pups learn_, her expression told him.

A few holes, a few large bolts, and the superstructure was in place. He managed to saw the seat off the ride-on, and fix it to the metal struts. He double-checked the gearing he'd pulled from a push-mower and a washing machine gearbox, inspected and re-greased the axle he'd improvised, then pushed it out of the shed.

Lawnzilla, Sioux Falls' first ever two-stroke ported and polished backwards-running self-propelled ride-on-instead-of-walk-behind mower with manual steering, chock brakes, modified tin can exhaust with custom expansion chamber and GT stripes painted on was ready for its maiden flight.

As an afterthought, he evicted a nest of mice from an old helmet he'd found and jammed it onto his head.

He started the engine, took his seat, grabbed hold of the folded-back handle steering rod, and pushed the throttle lever open...

In principle, the basic design was sound, apart from one or two small hiccups.

One small hiccup being, the intricacies of gearing ratios is as much art as science, and is usually not taught in depth until students of engineering have entered their second year of formal study, so it wasn't completely surprising that Dean didn't actually get it quite right.

Another small hiccup proved to be that two-stroke engines run at a much lower compression than four-strokes – as a result, they do not engine brake.

So, while in principle the basic design was sound, in practice Lawnzilla shot across the yard, over one of the two garden beds that actually had something approaching flowers that weren't weeds, across a gravel path and through a heap of empty cans, shredding a good number as it went, tweaked engine revving and blades flying. When Dean managed to close the throttle partway, Lawnzilla didn't slow down; in fact, the engine hit what Dean would learn later was the power band, and shot forward with renewed energy, jumping a rutted path and cutting an efficient trail of neatly mowed weeds across a stretch between rows of car bodies.

It was a tribute to the robust nature of the two-stroke cycle, the quality of Bobby's welding and Dean's death-grip on the steering handle that the whole thing held together as it accelerated through Bobby's herb patch, gave an unwary skunk a haircut it wouldn't forget in a hurry, and hit a deep wheel rut without shaking to pieces.

Lawnzilla launched into the air, where Dean identified yet one more small hiccup: no matter how good you brakes or steering are or are not, once all four wheels are off the ground, they're about as useful as a pork chop at a bah mitzvah…

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It spoke volumes about the sort of things Bobby was used to dealing with that, when he heard a loud howling yell travel past the window and glanced out in time to see Dean riding a mower travelling backwards through his herb patch at high speed, then take off and sail through the air to land quite gracefully in a large rosemary bush, his first thought was, "Thank God for that – I really need a break from The Ocean-Going Adventures of the Zombie Robot Sailors: Escape from Bimbo Island."

He and Sam wandered outside, and followed the swathe of death, destruction and neatly trimmed herbage that was the wake of Lawnzilla. It lay on its side, engine stalled, while Dean wiggled and squirmed in the depths of the rosemary hedge. Bobby grabbed an arm and pulled.

"I don't recall requestin' that you mow my gravel," he commented.

Dean pushed the helmet back from his face and grinned, eyes slightly crossed. "That was awesome!" he declared. He caught sight of Lawnzilla, and righted it, scanning it. "I think I know what went wrong," he said, "I think it needs better brakes."

"Some brakes at all would have to be an improvement," agreed Bobby. He caught sight of Kali, who was watching the proceedings calmly. _It is the way pups learn_.

"Maybe you can leave off that for today," Bobby told him, "I'll get us some chow."

"You could read Latin with us," offered Sam. "The zombie robot sailors are negotiating peace with the bimbos."

"No thanks, squirt," Dean rolled his eyes, "I might catch nerd."

"Podex perfectus es," Sam muttered. _You're a total asshole._

Dean's head whipped around. "Stercorem pro cerebro habes." _You have shit for brains._

"Interfice te cochleare." _Kill yourself with a spoon._

"Canicula."

"Malum."

"Tace!" barked Bobby. _Shut up!_ "Let's go inside." He made a mental note to hide his more inclusive Latin dictionary out of an eight-year-old's reach.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

That night, he was perusing his German manuscript, but morbid curiosity kept dragging his attention back to the illustrations that Sam had provided for him as 'inspiration' to write the next set of Latin lessons. Some of them were quite gruesome - letting the zombie robot sailors marry the pretty farmers' daughters and breed a new race of robot zombie bimbos was going to make for some pretty interesting grammar exercises. He rubbed a hand over his face. If he was honest, he really enjoyed having the boys stay with him, but they were exhausting. And tomorrow, he might have to spend some time in his herb patch, dealing with the aftermath of the Flight Of Lawnzilla.

A quiet but determined scratching at the door drew his attention. Frowning, he opened up to see Kali sitting there, gazing up at him urgently.

"Well then, what's burnin' your biscuits, old woman?" he asked, patting her greyed head. She woofed once, then made her way past him, and up the stairs. He followed her to the room the Winchesters shared.

She settled just inside the door, out of the way, but with a clear view of both beds. And the window.

"Okay, then," Bobby said absently, stroking his beard, "I'll leave you to it."

Before he went to bed that night, he checked the wards and the salt lines again.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Patience had paid off. She smiled to herself, eyes fixed on the upstairs window of the house.

He'd dumped his kids with the old drunk, and headed off. And Daddy's overprotective, interfering little soldier had happily spent the day outside, by himself, in the shed, tinkering away with pieces of junk. She sniggered to herself; well, that wasn't' the only 'junk' he'd played with – she'd managed to get close enough to see what sort of magazine he had folded inside the others…

In fact, that gave her an idea. She might be better off ditching the meatsuit she'd originally chosen, a kindly older lady with grey hair, for something a lot younger, and a lot more scantily clad. That might be more likely to get his attention, get his guard down.

The yard dog could be a problem. It was a large, male Rottweiler, and they didn't scare easy. It had nearly found her, tracking her stealthily. She'd have to take it out, if it got in the way, before it could raise the alarm. No, her best bet was to wait, and find him by himself. Then show him a bit of teenage leg, a bit of cleavage.

_You dirty little devil_, she chuckled quietly to herself, her eyes bleeding to black. Why Azazel had chosen the younger, shyer, almost mousy one, she didn't know – that older one, he was ready to mature into a man just made for sin; he would've made a positively _delicious_ Boy King.

Patience.

She faded back into the night.

* * *

><p>Before anyone takes me to task over a twelve-year-old turning a lawn mower into a performance vehicle, I'm basing it on something my brother did when he was twelve. Only he mowed through the dahlias, and ended up bingling it in the rhododendrons. My grandmother was unamused. My grandfather laughed his arse off, then helped fix the gearing. My grandmother was doubly unamused. Rhubarb and apple crumble was withheld that night as punishment. They raced their lawnmower-gocart around the yard until the engine died, and the lawn was severely afflicted. The rhododendrons never really did recover.<p>

Reviews are the Zombie Robot Sailors among the Shoplifting Bimbos of Life!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"…Ergo draco maledictus, et omnis legio diabolicus…" Sam stuttered, lost his train of thought.

"It's 'maledicte', and 'diabolica' if you're talking about dragons and legions," Dean corrected, hefting a stone thoughtfully. He threw it, but there wasn't enough water in the small stream for it to skip on. "Why are you talking about dragons and legions, anyway?"

"It's one of the chants that scares away demons," Sam told him. "An extracism. I was looking in one of Bobby's books, I and asked him. He tried to hide it, but I found it again," he added smugly.

"It's 'exorcism', and you shouldn't have," Dean frowned at him, picking up another stone. "If Bobby tells you to stay out of his books, you do it. There's some nasty stuff in there, Sam. Stuff you don't want to mess with."

"I know _that,_" Sam replied loftily, the budding intellectual. "You never read aloud from one of the books, unless you know exactly what it will do. And you never draw on the pages." He glared accusingly at Dean. "Although you did," he stated disapprovingly. "It's your writing on the pages in the Latin book, in the verb lists. And you drew… a mentula," he sniffed primly.

"Yeah, well, not everybody gets as excited as you do over dead languages," Dean defended.

"It's not all dead languages," Sam challenged him, "There's some stuff in Greek, too, and that's even harder to read, because they use a different alphabet: alpha, beta, gamma, delta, epsilon, zeta, eta…"

"Sick of Latin already?" teased Dean.

"No, it's just something different. And Bobby says, he'll need a day or so to work out my next lessons. I've already drawn the pictures, but he says there's not actually Latin words for 'helicopter' or 'laser gun'." Sam picked up a handful of stones, and tossed one into the stream. "Helicopter is made from Greek words, and since Latin borrowed some words from Greek, he says we can probably treat it like that, but he'll have to think about whether a helicopter should be masculine or feminine. 'Laser' could be trickier, because it's actually a, a… an acrid-something."

Dean snorted at that. No wonder Bobby had thrown them out of doors with instructions to "Go run around in the fresh air for a bit. Climb trees. Rassle with the dogs. Make a tire swing. Catch tadpoles. Fall in the stream. Play Cowboys and Indians – just don't you dare tie your brother to a tree this time Dean. Or Zombie Robot Sailors. Build a teepee. Let's just pretend for a little while that we're normal folks, okay? And don't set anything on fire."

"What are you doing learning words like 'mentula', anyway?" asked Dean.

"Bobby thought he'd hidden his dictionary too," Sam answered, then went on without missing a beat, "What were _you _doing _writing_ it in a _book_?" His tone suggested that he thought Dean had done something that should carry a minimum of several years' jail time.

"Like I said, not everybody gets such a happy from Latin grammar exercises as you do," grumped Dean. "I swear, you're going to grow up and marry a book."

"Yeah? Well, we know what sort of book you'd rather get happy from," mentioned Sam casually. "You've hidden it in the shed, haven't you? Maybe I can get Kali to track it," he added thoughtfully, turning to sit and scratch the ears of the old dog, who'd quietly followed them when they left the immediate area of the house. She whuffed happily, trying to lick his face. "What's he got stashed in the workshop, girl?"

Dean turned back to the stream so Sam couldn't see the slight flush rising on his face.

Sam pulled a face of his own. "It's hot," he complained, flapping at a fly.

"So, fall in the stream. It's okay, Bobby said we could," Dean told him.

"There's not enough water," Sam grumped.

"Well, it's your fault for getting us thrown outside," Dean snarked, "You and your Zombie Robot Sailors. What the hell do Zombie Robot Sailors want with a helicopter anyway?"

"Well, their ship hit a rock on Bimbo Island, and sank," explained Sam, "And they're going to marry the farmers' daughters, and have children, then they'll be the League Of Robot Zombie Bimbos, fighting crime and evil supernatural things."

"Zombies don't fight crime, Sammy," Dean commented, suddenly serious, "Because they _are_ evil supernatural things."

"Mine will," Sam said emphatically, "Because… they're the Latin-Speaking League Of Robot Zombie Bimbos!" He smiled winningly.

Dean rolled his eyes. "All bimbos are good for is wearing bikinis and carrying small dogs in handbags," he pointed out.

"Don't worry, these will be smart bimbos," Sam assured him.

Dean's brain did a double-take. "Dude, did you just hear what you said?" he asked incredulously. "Smart bimbos? Bimbos are bimbos because they're not smart! There's no such thing as a smart bimbo!"

"Well, I've invented them," said Sam dismissively, patting Kali again. "They'll have a supercomputer at their headquarters to help them." He paused. "They'll need a really cool car," he decided.

"The Bimbomobile?" supplied Dean, a little snidely.

"Yeah, exactly!" declared Sam. "You can design that, if you like," he offered generously. "Kali's hot too," his train of thought switched direction the way an eight-year-old's can, like a ping pong ball in a tornado. "It's a shame the stream's so shallow." He stood up, toed off his sneakers and socks, and paddled into the water. "It's nice and cool."

"Mmmmm." Dean wasn't really paying attention. He was looking at the stream bed, the small gully it cut into, and the rocky ground that rose on both sides of it.

"Dean, what?" pressed Sam, turning to look, trying to see what his brother was looking at. "I don't see anything."

"Not now, you don't, Sammy," a grin slowly spread across Dean's face, "But there could be here." He turned to his brother. "How would you like it if we had our very own swimming hole?" he asked.

Sam's eyes lit up. "That would be awesome!" he cried. His face fell just as quickly as he had smiled. "Bobby would never let us, though."

"Crap," Dean dismissed, "Bobby told us to go out and pretend to be like normal kids, yeah? Well, swimming in swimming holes is something that normal kids do." He surveyed the ground again, estimating distances and levels.

"Except, we don't actually have a swimming hole," Sam pointed out, reasonably.

"We don't actually have a swimming hole, _yet_," corrected Dean, frowning. He moved downstream, and prodded experimentally at a large rock. "Come here, Sam," he instructed, "And help me roll this one into the water."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It was slow going; by the time they headed back to the house for lunch, they were dirty and muddy, but had made comparatively little headway. They'd started with rocks, and filled in the gaps with smaller rocks and mud, Dean supervising the reinforcement with a couple of pieces of roofing tin.

"So, what have you idjits been up to?" Bobby asked.

"We're quantity surveyors," Dean answered readily. Sam nodded eager agreement.

Kali cocked her head, looking unconcerned. _It is the way pups learn…_

Bobby cocked an eyebrow as he served up PB&J sandwiches. "Uh-huh," he said, nodding, "And what exactly are you surveying?"

"We are surveying…" began Dean.

"…The place for the new headquarters," Sam finished.

"New headquarters, huh?" asked Bobby, pouring milk. "What headquarters would that be?"

"The secret underground headquarters for the Latin-Speaking League Of Zombie Robot Bimbos!" Sam answered firmly. "With double garage," he added.

"Yeah," Dean warmed to the theme, "And, and, we have to dig some test holes, to see what the ground is like, so we can work out how much dirt has to get moved, and how much it will cost," he explained.

"I see." Bobby's bullshit detector was blaring so loudly he anticipated complaints from the nearest neighbour within the hour, but he figured that digging a few holes and moving a bit of dirt around couldn't cause too much harm, as long as they didn't undermine the house. "Well, you just tell the chief engineer, I said be careful you don't dig too close to any pre-existing structures," he told them.

"Yes, Uncle Bobby," they chorused obediently.

In hindsight, that should've sent up warning flares. Certainly, the speed with which they downed lunch, then headed back to their game without any bickering, ought to have alerted him that the Winchester boys were Up To Something. In his own defence, he could claim that he was distracted; he'd been racking his brain for a way to work the helicopter into the Latin lessons, and he had no idea how he was supposed to traslate 'laser' – it wasn't even a word, after all, it was an acronym, but Sam had been insistent.

He finished his own sandwich, and headed back to his study, wondering if the kid would be satisfied with some sort of catapult. With radioactive rocks, maybe.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_Clangggg… clank clank… dink… bongggggg… clangggg…_

"Quiet!" hissed Dean at his brother as they dragged the cylinder across the ground.

"I can't help it, it's metal and it's hitting rocks," Sam shot back, grunting with the effort. Even almost empty, it was heavy and awkward.

After much effort and a lot of swearing, they managed to position the metal cannister precariously at the fissure of the abandoned rabbit burrow.

"So, what do we do now?" asked Sam, sitting down and wiping his face with a hand, leaving dirty smudges. "How do we get it down in the hole?"

"We just open the valve," Dean assured him, doing just that. "It's heavier than air, so it will just sink down into the hole." He'd done some more reading in a different _Popular Mechanics_ the previous night, and learned all sorts of interesting things about welding, including the properties of acetylene.

"How do we know when there's enough?" asked Sam.

"I'll turn it off when there's enough," Dean answered, deftly sidestepping the question, the answer to which was "I have no idea." Eventually satisfied, he shut off the valve. "Okay, let's get this back to the shed, and get the wick."

With more clangs, bongs and cusswords, the cylinder was restored to its rightful place, not so much out of any safety consideration as out of a desire to avoid detection.

Dean picked up the bucket containing the piece of thin rope he'd been soaking in kerosene. "All right," he said, "All we have to do is lay this, and light it."

"Dean," Sam said uncertainly, in a tone suggesting that he might be starting to see the possibility of getting into a world of trouble for this, "Uncle Bobby said not to set things on fire."

"This isn't setting things on fire, Sammy," Dean reassured him, "This is… earthworks." They made their way back to the stream, and Dean laid the rope. Over rock and bare ground of course, because they didn't want to start any fires.

How far away should we be?" asked Sam.

As far as we can get, to be safe," Dean replied, "But close enough to see. This is going to be awesome, Sammy!" He pulled a lighter from a pocket, and ignited the end of the rope. They scrambled to take cover behind a natural embankment.

He could see it in his mind's eye: that bit of the bank overhanging the stream would slide down there, behind the sheets of tin, and block that bit, and the bit above it would slide down, and make up the level, and in a couple of days they'd have a swimming hole…

The rope burned agonisingly slowly.

"Come on, come on," Dean muttered, eyes glued to the rope.

"Er, Dean," Sam's eyes followed Kali. The old dog was trotting briskly in the other direction, breaking into a stiff run when the ground levelled out.

"Shhh, Sam," his brother hissed, "It's nearly…"

And then the earth heaved.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It was one of the aspects of her Blood – sometimes, she could see danger that was about to unfold in the immediate future. She knew that they were not in any real peril, otherwise she would have done her damnedest to drag at least one of them away physically, or die trying. It was just the mischief of Young. It was the way pups learn.

However, that didn't mean _she_ had to stay around to get covered in muck…

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Amazing stuff, acetylene. It can burn at up to 6,300 degrees F. It's highly unstable. In the presence of enough oxygen, it's extremely explosive. It's expensive, but the reason it's so popular as a welding fuel is that a little goes a very, very long way. You get lots of bang for your buck.

The first explosion was not so much a 'bang', though, as a dull 'Fwoomph' that sent a shockwave through the ground. The bank beside the stream lifted, rather than blasting into the air, and slid down the hill into the water in a great cloud of dust.

This movement of earth allowed air to rush into the deeper tunnels where the acetylene had penetrated. The second explosion was _much _more spectacular. And much _louder_.

Much, _much_ louder.

"Wow," breathed Dean, after the clods of dirt, mud and other detritus had stopped raining down on them, "That was awesome!"

"Er, Dean," Sam said again, pointing to the ground in front of them.

It was moving. Towards them. Fast.

Amazing things, rabbit warrens. Underground, they can go for hundreds of feet. So you can be standing a long way from the main burrow entrance, and still have tunnels underneath you.

The Winchesters took to their heels, a series of underground explosions chasing after them, sending geysers of dirt and flame poofing up out of the ground as the rolling source of ignition caught up with pockets of gas in the tunnels. They scrambled up the bank, away from the stream, until their way was blocked by a large fallen tree…

"JUMP!" yelled Dean, as both of them dived for cover behind the log.

With a last flaming _Fwoomph_ the demolition job petered out. They lifted their heads cautiously.

"I think that might be it," pronounced Dean, pulling his brother to his feet. "Come on, let's go see what it did!"

It was an earthmoving job worthy of a seasoned engineer: the bank had finished blocking the stream, the upper overhang had slid down and would dam it in at the side. He might have to detail a small spillway on the other side, Dean thought, but that could wait until their swimming hole filled up and he could see where it should go.

"See, Sammy?" he smiled widely. "No problem! All we gotta do now is wait!"

"Our own swimming hole!" piped Sam, gazing at his big brother with adoration. "That's awesome!"

In the way of dumb luck, the god that watches over first year lab students and curious children kept them safe from the wrath of chemistry.

However, as they returned to the house and a figure with an expression like thunder emerged to meet them, it became apparent that nothing was going to save them from the wrath of Bobby…

* * *

><p>Blowing up rabbit warrens with acetylene is a well-loved tradition among children in semi-rural to rural areas in Australia – how more of us never ended up dead is a mystery. This account may or may not be based on personal experience, except we managed to do it without getting caught *insert blushing face icon here*.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

Right, let's try some cuteness for Leahelisabeth. Elf, I have NFI how I made it to adulthood; it must be the deity that watches over inquisitive children, chemistry students (how more of THEM don't get blown up, I'll never understand) and idjits in general.

Please, everybody, Don't Try That At Home. I have since learned a lot more about the properties of acetylene, and what it does when it asplodes. The post-mortem photos are interesting, in a gruesome sort of fashion. I won't even try to practise to improve my welding, because that stuff scares the _stercus_ out of me.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

"Uh-huh… uh-huh… yeah, it was an old barbeque bottle," Bobby glared daggers at them as he spoke into the phone. "Yeah, my own fault. Thought it was empty, the gauge was stuck. Luckily, didn't take my own head clean off. No, I've junked it. The valve and gauge too, not safe trying to fix 'em. Uh-huh… okay, then. No, no, I'm sorry to have caused a problem. Please convey my apologies to Mrs Witherspoon. In fact, I'll call her myself, and thank her for her concern. Yeah. Thanks Tom. I will." He hung up the phone, and glared at them.

"That was the Sheriff," he told them. "He's had three people reporting explosions from the direction of my place, including one from the Widder Witherspoon. She's a nice old lady, even if she's as neurotic as her cat. Bakes me a box of shortbread cookies every Christmas. She's been pestering Tom about your little adventure in excavation – says her pussy's all agitated and no amount of stroking will calm it down." Dean swallowed his snort of laughter under Bobby's death-ray glare.

He didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice at all. He didn't wave his arms around. He didn't even use the word 'idjit'. That's how the Winchesters knew that he was really angry.

"I don't know what to say," he told them finally, in a frighteningly quiet tone. "I can ward the yard against all sorts of evil critters, but against stupidity of this calibre, I'm powerless."

"Bobby, we…" began Dean.

"Did I ask you to say something?" Bobby glowered.

Dean positively shrank back. "No, sir," he replied in a small voice, unthinkingly moving closer to Sam.

The Hunter sighed in a put-upon way. "I don't know what I'd have told your Daddy," he went on, "The lengths that man drives himself to in the name of keeping you safe, and here you go, just about blowin' yourselves up on my partrol." His eyes bored into Dean. "That your idea of watching out for your brother, Dean?" he asked harshly, "Emptyin' the gas axe into a rabbit warren, when you have no damned idea how far it goes, and settin' it alight? You ever seen what that stuff can do to a body, boy?" Dean shook his head, wide-eyed at the reminder of his responsibility for his brother's safety. "And you're supposed to be the smart one," Bobby rumbled at Sam, who seemed on the verge of tears, "You're not content to make your brain explode, you gotta try to blow up the rest of you as well?"

He took his cap off, and ran a hand through his hair distractedly. They'd scared the hell out of him when he'd heard the explosions. "I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do with you," he muttered finally, talking half to himself. "I should send you to your room until you're twenty. When I was your age, my Daddy tanned my hide when we blew up the creek behind Old Man Bailey's place, I couldn't sit down for…"

"You blew up a creek?" asked Dean in a small voice, a small note of admiration creeping into the tone.

_Balls,_ thought Bobby. "That is neither here nor there," he went on, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice, "The point here, is that…"

"Were you making a swimming hole, too?" asked Sam tentatively, big puppy-dog eyes shining with unshed tears.

Bobby dropped heavily into a kitchen chair, and sighed. He knew when he was beaten; he'd faced down and dispatched some of the most vicious, ugly, plain evil sumbitches that walked the Earth, but in the face of those two pairs of earnest eyes, he was useless.

"We were noodling," he explained, his voice heavy with defeat, "But the point here is…"

"What's noodling?" asked Sam, climbing into the chair beside him and fixing his gaze on Bobby.

"It's catching fish with your hands," Bobby told him, "And there was this real big one we'd seen, so we dynamited the pond, but that's not…"

"You used dynamite?" Dean was intrigued, taking another chair.

"Yeah," Bobby went on, smiling a little at the memory, "We found it in Uncle Jake's shed, but it was old, so we figured it must have lost some of its potency, and wrapped it up with some gunpowder. O' course, what we didn't know was that sweating dymamite gets more unstable, and combining it with gunpowder gives you a more potent, more unstable mix… the point is, though, the point I'm making here _is_," he rallied magnificently in the face of his rapt audience, "The point _is_, that were were just lucky we didn't blow ourselves to pieces. By the time our fathers finished with us, being exploded into a high velocity smear of red pulp sounded preferable." He glared at them again for good effect. "Now, since you two chuckleheads have energy to burn, you can clean my truck – inside and out." He kept glaring, daring them to groan. "You will also check the tyres, the oil, the radiator and the washer bottle. Tomorrow, you," he pointed to Sam, "Will sit in the living room quietly and learn five new irregular verbs to my satisfaction, including the future tense, and you," he indicated Dean, "Will receive a lesson in how to use a welding rig safely. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes Uncle Bobby," the chorused, suddenly serious again.

"Good. You might as well hose yourselves off too while you're out there," he added, "So you don't clog up the plumbing come bath time." He threw the keys at Dean with a final glare, and the Winchesters made good their escape, Kali trailing behind them.

When he heard the bickering and the vacuum start up ten minutes later, he made his way down to the stream to check the damage.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Why am I the one who has to vacuum the cab?" whined Sam, crawling into the foot well, dragging the vacuum hose with him.

"Because you're too short to check this other stuff, and you don't know how anyway," Dean told him, peering at the dipstick then frowning at the engine as if it had done something he found morally offensive. "This thing eats more oil than gas," he mumbled to himself.

"Ew! There's a smell in here," Sam complained, poking under the seat.

"So, close your legs," Dean told him.

"No, really, I think there might be something dead in here," Sam persisted.

"Then pull it out, and throw it away," Dean instructed.

"There's wrappers, and stuff I don't want to think about under the seat… um," the vacuum cleaner made a strange whining noise and Sam shut it off. "Dean, I think there's a problem here."

"What?" Dean's head popped out from under the hood.

"I think it was a mouse," Sam suggested.

"Well, get rid of it."

"I think it's stuck." Sam shook the wand vigorously, but the unfortunate creature remained lodged in its strange resting place. "The vacuum's stopped sucking."

"Well, you suck hard enough to fill in for it. Here, show me."

Dean tried dismantling the wand, shaking the hose, and switching the machine on and off, but the deceased rodent was wedged tight. Dean demonstrated swapping the hose coupling to the outlet. "Here, changing this over makes it blow instead of suck."

Sam stomped on the power switch. The motor whined, then suddenly cleared the blockage. he turned around, and shot Dean at close range with a high velocity mummified dead mouse.

"Ow! Sonofabitch!" yelped the elder Winchester, bending down to examine the offending murine projectile. "Gross, Sammy, you bitch!"

"What?" asked Sam, "I didn't do anything!"

"You shot me!" accused Dean, "You shot me with a dead mouse!"

"No I didn't!" Sam shouted back, "It just came out! You were in the way!"

"Yes you did!" Dean scooped up the vexing vermin and flinging it at his brother.

"Yuck!" Sam jumped backwards, then grabbed it up and flung it right back.

Hostilites quickly escalated; peace negotiations were dead in the water before they even began. Dead mouse gave way to handfuls of dirt – Dean had mud, but Sam had gravel. The horror of chemical warfare reared its head: Sam brandished soapy water, Dean threatened to weaponise dog crap. Heavy bombardment with sponges and shop rags began in earnest, and then, the unthinkable: Sam reached for the hose. Dean was morally outraged at his brother threatening to use A Weapon of Mass Ablution.

War is hell.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It was astonishing, Bobby thought, surveying the scene, the way the boy's brain could work in three dimensions, see how things worked, even if his daddy wouldn't let him stay in school long enough to learn the language to explain how he knew… Dean had unwittingly chosen the optimal spot and constructed a pretty good arched dam, the sheets of tin giving it a curving shape that would provide a stronger structure than a straight line or random pile of dirt, with the infill giving a high enough bank so that the trapped water would eventually be deep enough for swimming. Bobby shook his head; the boy had the mind of an engineer; he knew his truck would be more carefully tended than he would do himself. He could only hope that one day that talent found a worthy outlet.

The swimming hole was starting to fill up, although it would be a slow business with the stream running so low. There would be no point forbidding them to enjoy the fruits of their labours – his own father and uncle had found out that declaring something off-limits just makes it even more attractive. Both boys were strong swimmers, John had seen to that, so at least he wouldn't have to worry about them drowning.

By the time he made his way back to the house, the Winchesters had apparently decided to re-enact the Battle of the Somme with sponges; if anything they were dirtier than when they'd started. A bilateral ceasefire held as he gave them one final glare on the way back in.

He went into his study, stuffed his hat into his mouth and laughed until tears of hilarity ran down his face.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The dogs watched the boys eventually give up on washing each other to death, and get on with washing the truck.

_The Alpha disciplines them_, noted the Guardian.

_Of course_, Kali noted. The youngest one had shot her a beseeching look while the Keeper had upbraided them, but she had pointedly ignored it. In the absence of the Young's Dam, it was the duty of a pack's leader to pull them into line. _That is the way of things. It is how pups learn._

_It is the way of things_, he agreed approvingly.

She could see his desire to join in their squabbling game warring with his work instincts as he lifted his muzzle to the air. _The weather changes._

_Tonight._ Her own nose told her the same thing. She didn't like the sort of weather that was coming. For a start, it made her aches and pains worse, but worse than that, it made everything more difficult. It was harder to see, and the rain washed away scents, and the noise and crackle of power in the air confused her senses, her instincts.

Things often used such weather as cover. Evil things.

Her Blood whispered.

When the Young finally finished and the Keeper called them inside, she rose and followed, knowing that the Guardian would retreat to his kennel, but would not sleep deeply tonight.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The storm moved in after they'd gone to bed, the rumbling growl of thunder rattling the sills and the stark flashes of lightning searing through the worn curtains. The old dog had insisted on joining them, curling up tightly just inside the door, cloudy old eyes wide and watchful.

Dean heard his brother fidget fitfully in his sleep. Sammy didn't like thunderstorms – Dean sometimes wondered if it was because they reminded some part of his little brother of the crack and rumble of falling, burning timbers, the harsh light of surging flames… his nightmares seemed to be worst during storms.

There was a particularly bright flash, and Sam sat up with a gasp. "Dee!" he called, reverting to the word he'd used for Dean when he was a toddler.

"Right here, Sammy." Dean was at his brother's side in an instant. "I'm right here, it's okay, we're safe, kiddo."

"Dee!" Sam said again, wide, scared eyes fixed fearfully on the window, "There's something there!" He clutched tightly to Dean's shirt. "Out there!"

Dean put his arms around his brother, trying to soothe him, "It's okay, Sam," he reassured his frightened sibling, "It's just the storm, it's a really nasty one, you know what they can be like in Summer, when they come out of nowhere…"

"It's out there," Sam insisted miserably into Dean's shirt, hiding his face.

Dean was about to reassure his brother again when he heard the low, menacing growl behind him.

Kali walked deliberately to the window, got her front paws on the sill on the second try, nosed aside a curtain, and gazed fiercely into the night.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_Leave_, she spoke to the night, letting her Blood run hot and menacing. _Leave_.

Power crackled in the air, under the stink of ozone.

_This den is defended. These Young are defended. I am a Hunter's dog._

The tenseness in the storm swirled around her, battered at her, mocking, laughing at her age and infirmity. She held her ground.

_I am a Hunter's dog. I will fight. I will taste your blood. I bare my throat to none._

_I am a Hunter's dog. This is the way of things._

_Leave._

Suddenly she heard the Guardian call a Warning, a fearless, savage noise carrying threat, power, authority, and promising a world of hurt to anything foolish enough to challenge him. She was proud of him.

There was another rumble of thunder, then nothing but the hiss of the rain against glass.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Deeeeee," Sam keened into Dean's shirt. Dean rocked him and shushed him, as he had done when he was younger, and frightened, not taking his eyes of the old dog who bared her snaggled teeth, and growled a challenge into the dark.

"Whatever it was, Sammy," he whispered into his brother's hair, "It's gone now." The dog dropped back to the floor, and stiffly made her way onto the bed, looking up at him with those eyes half-blind old eyes. She curled at the foot of the bed, still watchful. Dean found her presence strangely reassuring. "See? Kali's not bothered."

"She's a Hunter's dog," sniffled Sam.

"Well, then, if she's happy to curl up, it must be safe for us, too," reasoned Dean.

Sam eventually quieted, although he would not let go of Dean's shirt. Dean slid into Sam's bed, wrapping himself reassuringly around his brother.

Bobby checked on them later, after he'd gone out to look for what had set Rumsfeld to barking a savage alarm call. He found them curled together in the one bed, Dean's arms protectively around Sam, and Kali lying watchful at the end of the bed.

"You keep an eye on them for me, old woman," he said softly, scratching her ears. She quietly whuffed fondly to him, and dropped her muzzle back to her paws, but her eyes remained open, and watchful.

* * *

><p>Possibly two homages there - some chocolate-coated internets to whoever spots them!<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

Aaaaand chocolate internets go to PaulatheCat, for spotting the Dr Who ref! The other one was Mrs Witherspoon and her, ahem, cat - if you're not familiar with Mrs Slocombe, from "Are You Being Served?", there are plenty of youtube clips of her and her constant references to her elderly cat, Tiddles. There's a compilation at: httpCOLONSLASHSLASH wwwDOT youtubeDOT com/watch?v=vRJlItzalJY

Again, I must report that, disturbingly enough, dead rodents as ammunition is another item lifted from my childhood. Dead critters were frequently deployed as weapons: mice, rats, jellyfish, you name it, if it was solid enough to pick up (or gloopy enough to break pieces off), it was fair game. Banjo sharks were also used as warclubs. How none of us ever started an epidemic of some revolting mycobacterial disease is a mystery.

I thought this would be the last chapter, but this damned story just keeps unfolding, and then his chapter was hijacked by vampire pirates. Vampirates, even.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

"So, the garage for the Bimbomobile will be here." Sam added details to his drawing as he talked. Kali sat by his chair, and he stroked her head with his other hand; he'd found her presence comforting after the nightmares he'd had during the storm a couple of days earlier, and she seemed happy to provide the reassurance of her close presence. "Next to the underground headquarters, and the Zombie Robot Bimbos will get there by going through this invisible door..."

"Wouldn't it be easier and faster to have headquarters at ground level, then have the garage under it?" asked Dean, pausing briefly in his own design work. After his welding instruction, he'd decided to start from scratch with Operation Grass Curation. Lawnzilla would be defanged and sold; the plans for Frankenmower (Son Of Lawnzilla) were gradually coming together. "Then you can have, you know, a fireman's pole to get from the headquarters to the garage."

Sam gave him a look suggesting that Dean should be enrolled in Special Needs classes, and would probably require extra tuition just to keep up. "Togas," he said, as if that explained everything.

"Togas?" echoed Bobby. It was like being in a doctor's waiting room with a bad soap opera playing on the television. You couldn't help yourself, you were sucked in out of morbid curiosity.

"Togas," reiterated Sam. "They're _Latin-Speaking_ Zombie Robot Bimbos. They wear togas. So they can't slide down a pole."

"Roman women weren't allowed to wear togas, they wore stolas," Bobby chimed in, unable to help himself – the pedant within just reacted to the presence of a proto-pedant, the way a Geiger counter will start to click wildly just before the men in white overalls start screaming and running for the exits.

Sam's eloquent expression (which would one day become familiar to Dean as a Renaissance Period Bitchface) made it clear that Bobby ought to be sharing a box of crayons with Dean in Special Needs class. "They did in _early_ Roman history," he enunciated carefully – the extra day spent indoors due to the wet weather had not gone to waste, Sam seeking out books to inform himself about the likely traits of authentic Zombie Robot Bimbos of a Roman derivation. "So the Z.R.B.s wear them. They're _traditional_ Zombie Robot Bimbos."

"Ah, well, that's different, then," conceded Bobby. Then, like picking at a hangnail, he pressed on: "If they're so traditional, shouldn't they be driving around in a chariot?"

"They wouldn't all fit into a chariot," Sam explained, oozing patience, "Anyway, they're very modern traditional Zombie Robot Bimbos."

Bobby was pretty sure his brain pulled a hamstring about then. "Okay, underground garage, got it," he muttered. "Where's the helicopter going to land?"

"No, hang on," Dean hadn't conceded on the matter of the suitability of togas for pole-sliding purposes, "I think you could slide down a pole in a toga. You could kind of wrap it around the pole, and let the fabric slide against it."

"No, it would ride up around you knees, and you'd end up kind of sticking to the pole," countered Sam, "Or getting pole burns."

"Is this a metal pole?" Dean wanted clarification.

"Of course it's a metal pole! The Zombie Robot Bimbos wouldn't want to get splinters!"

"All right, just checking," Dean said, "But if you could kind of wrap one knee around the pole, or just grip it with your feet and let your hands slide..."

"It would all get in the way," declared Sam.

"You just said it would ride up!" argued Dean.

"It would, it would bunch up, and get in the way, and you'd be stuck up the pole, halfway down. Without any shorts on." He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

"What to you mean, without any shorts on?" No, not a hamstring, Bobby's brain had torn a medial ligament.

"Hello? Traditional toga? No shorts on underneath." If the whole Hunting thing didn't pan out, Sam clearly had a future as a demanding professor of the type who failed students for not knowing their Homoiousianism from their Apocatastasis and complained bitterly to his colleagues about What The Hell They're Teaching Kids In School These Days.

"Panties," corrected Dean.

"What?"

"Panties," Dean repeated. "Zombie Robot Bimbos would wear panties, not shorts. Or not wear panties, as the case may be."

"The male ones wear shorts," Sam elaborated, "When they're not wearing togas."

"No, hang on, hang on, you can't have male bimbos," frowned Dean. "There's no such thing."

"Why not?" asked Sam, reasonably.

"Because, because, you just don't!" Dean sounded exasperated. "Bimbos is a word for pretty, dumb girls. They're female!"

"I've met some guys who are definite bimbos," Sam insisted, "So some of them will be male."

"Oh, God, you're impossible," groaned Dean. "Look, 'bimbo' is a word that only applies to girls! You need to use a different word!'

"Fine," snapped Sam, "Then they'll be the Latin-Speaking League Of Zombie Robot Bimbos... And Himbos."

"I don't suppose this would be a convenient time to discuss the location of the laser gun armoury at the secret headquarters?" asked Bobby. His brain was going to have to spend a fortnight in traction.

"Actually, I like the catapults better," Sam decided. "They can go here, and here, outside the secret headquarters. The Bimbos & Himbos can use them to shoot down the flying sharks."

Bobby sighed. "Gotcha, flying sharks," he duly noted. His brain was clearly going to be on the bench for several games...

"Flying ninja sharks," Sam added details. "Although the Bimbo/Himbos will later form an alliance with the sharks, against their common enemy, the Nazi Mermaids."

"Nazi Mermaids," Bobby dutifully penned, wondering how the hell national socialism would translate into Latin. "Er, why exactly are the Nazi Mermaids the enemies of the Bimbo/Himbos and the, er, flying sharks?"

"Flying ninja sharks," corrected Sam.

"Right, right, flying ninja sharks. Why are they enemies?"

"They're probably persecuting jewfish," muttered Dean, turning back to his plans for Frankenmower.

"Not only that," said Sam ominously, "They're in league with the Vampire Pirates."

"Let's just get the layout of the secret headquarters sorted out before we get into the politics," suggested Bobby. This children's author gig was harder than it looked. And they hadn't even got to the pluperfect tense, or comparatives yet...

He was still racking his brain for a way to translate 'Ninja shark' into Latin (_Orientales miles pistrix_ - 'Eastern warrior shark' – seemed to lack a certain something. 'Angry shark dressed in black'? 'Pyjama-wearing shark waving swords'? How the hell was a shark supposed to wave a sword, anyway, and while flying as well?) when the Winchesters decided to settle their argument about the slideability of togas via empirical experimentation. Bedsheets were as close as they could get to togas, and the stair banister was as close as they could get to sliding down a pole, but even after several experimental replicates, shredding a couple of pieces of linen on the way, the results remained inconclusive, and they both claimed vindication of their theories…

Bobby thought he was probably getting a small insight into what people meant when he heard them tell their kids things like "Go outside and play in the traffic".

It was something of a relief when the weather cleared after lunch and he could shoo them back outside, still arguing about the effect that the presence or absence of shorts would have on the slideability of togas – Bobby wondered if he might give his brain a rest by making an early start on next year's tax return.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It was slow, hot work, Dean discovered, as he sawed, drilled and ground his way through the pieces that would make Frankenmower a truly awesome contraption. He'd done some more reading, and had a better understanding of the power band phenomenon of two-strokes, and had an idea about putting a drum brake on, so it would be easier to stop, or maybe he could tear down an old four-stroke engine for this one. It would be trickier, more moving parts, but it would be easier to gear. And he'd read about these things called superchargers, basically just a fancy sort of fanning mechanism...

He paused, blinking sweat out of his eyes again. It was hot, and humid after the rain. His shirt was sticking to him, and the gloves were making his hands sweat. He shut the torch off, and shucked out of his protective kit, returning to the house for a drink.

Sam was still nose-deep in a book, utterly absorbed, on the bench seat on the porch, Kali beside him. Her head rested against his leg, and he absently stroked her ears as he read. Dean couldn't help the smile that broke out on his face; the old girl had been sticking close to Sam after his nightmare during the storm, and her presence had clearly settled his little brother. It was a shame they couldn't have a dog; Sammy would've liked one.

He wondered if all the rain had made any contribution to their swimming hole. A quick dip in cold water sounded like a pretty damned good idea.

Dean made his way out of the back door, and headed for the stream. If it looked promising, he'd come back and get Sam, and maybe a couple of old towels, and they could go swimming.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

She dozed, feeling the Young's total absorption in his game as he stroked her greyed fur. She was tired; she'd been watchful and wary these past two days, and it was telling on her. The changing weather made the ache in her limbs, and the one in her chest, worse, and she was so tired. Even the Guardian sprawled in his kennel, torpid in the humid heat.

The Young had felt it, the wrong-thing that had tried to approach under cover of the storm. That was highly unusual for a human. It had scared him badly. Was that why it was here? Because of him? Was that why her instincts, her Blood was drawn to watch them?

He shifted beside her, spoke kindly to her. She wagged her tail, and followed him into the house. There were so many wonderful things about human Young – their simple readiness to offer kind words and pats, their unquestioning affection… and their willingness to drop tasty morsels if prompted by a sad face and a lifted paw.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Dean? Dean!" Sam called to his brother, but got no response from the workshop. "Dean, I'm getting a drink, you want one?" That settled it, if there was no yell of "Get me a soda, bitch," he wasn't there. It was hot; he had probably already gone inside. "Come on, Kali, let's go find Dean."

He made his way to the kitchen, and helped himself to a glass of milk and a cookie. Kali sat beside him, head cocked, face looking wistful, one front paw raised endearingly. Sam checked in the jar, fished out a broken piece of cookie, made sure that Bobby wasn't around, and gave it to the dog.

Bobby had retreated to his study, and was humming happily over a big box stuffed with what looked like accounts and receipts, so Sam wandered through the house to the back door, and out into the yard. His big brother was probably out there, scrounging pieces for his Megamower, or whatever the hell he was calling it.

He spared a glance for the repaired herb patch; the rain then sunshine would help it recover, but he had his doubts about whether that rosemary bush would ever play the piano again…

Sam sniggered at a sudden thought: maybe Dean had come out here with _that_ magazine. He wandered quietly through the car shells for a while, thinking about how hilarious it would be to sneak up on his brother and catch him with it. He'd seen Dean doing something pretty damned weird with a magazine like that a few months ago - no wonder he wanted privacy - and the embarrassment on his brother's face would be awesome. It would make excellent blackmail material next time Dean lifted candy at a gas station. Although he still had no idea what was so interesting about ladies with no clothes on – his brother was clearly some sort of freak.

He wandered for a while, but didn't find Dean (which was a pity). Sam was about to head back indoors, maybe do some more work on the secret headquarters layout. when Kali suddenly went stiff beside him. He leaned down to her.

"Kali? What is it?" he asked warily. The old dog's nose quivered in the air, and she let out a deep rumbling growl, a noise that travelled through the ground as much as through the air. It was just like the noise she'd made that night…

She sprang forward, and started running, faster than such an elderly dog should be able to move. Sam realised she was heading for the stream, where they'd made their swimming hole.

Then he heard the yell.

_Dean._

Without hesitation, he set off at a run after the old dog.

* * *

><p>I think we have one more chapter to go, but until then, reviews are the Supercharger on the Engine Of Life!<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

Okay, cliffhangers are eebil, so here's the last chapter, kind off. Might need a sort of a chapterlet to finish off.

I was, unfortunately, unable to work any Aztec ritual human sacrifice re-enactments at the backyard incinerator, which was the fate of the Barbie dolls that my mother and grandmother insisted on giving me, because I couldn't see a way to get the Winchesters to do anything with dolls, although my brother never minded assisting in the ritual immolations, even if I was the chief priest and he was only allowed to be a lesser iamb.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

It was perfect.

Dean smiled in satisfaction at the scene before him. The collapsed bank had dammed the stream exactly where he'd thought it should go, and the recent rain had contributed to the water flow. It wasn't quite full, but it was a decent sized swimming hole. Definitely enough to cool off on a hot day. Awesome!

He was considering pulling his shirt off and jumping right in when he heard a voice behind him say, "Hi."

He whipped around to see the girl standing at the treeline, smiling tentatively at him.

"Er, hi," he replied. His eyes didn't stay on her rather pretty face very long, though, not with that burgeoning chest under the singlet top, and the legs that went aaaaaall the way up to her tight shorts…

"Do you swim here?" she asked, walking forward, "Is it safe to swim?"

"Er, I guess so," he stumbled. "That is," he went on, recovering quickly and returning her friendly smile, "It's only been like this for a couple of days." He pointed out the new dam. "We blew that down into the water before the storm, so it would fill up, but the rain has obviously helped things along. It's mostly just gravel and rocks on the bottom, but there might be a few branches, some bushes, so watch out for snags for a while."

"That's good to know about, I'd have never have thought of that," she said. Her face suddenly formed a mortified expression. Oh, God, I'm being so rude!" She held out a hand. "I'm Carrie. I'm staying with my grandparents. Their place backs on over there." She flashed another winning smile.

Dean took her hand, letting his smile widen. "Dean," he said, "Staying with my uncle. His place is back there."

"That makes us practically neighbours!" she giggled, putting a hand on his arm. She couldn't be more than a couple of years older than he was, he realised. "So, you made this?"

"Yeah." He found himself telling her about the escapade with the improvised earth moving. She gasped and laughed in all the right places.

"Oh – my – God!" she finally said, "Did you get into much trouble?"

"A bit," Dean confided, "But it was totally worth it." The expression on his face would, in just a few years, morph recognisably into the Killer Smile.

"I'll say. The water looks good. It's so damned hot, I'd really like to get wet." She kicked out of her sandals, and paddled her feet in the water. "Ohhhh, that's better," she purred. She eyed the water speculatively.

"Dean," she asked enticingly, "Have you ever been skinny-dipping?"

His eyes widened, and he swallowed. "Er, no," he confessed, "It's not something… er, no."

She smiled again, and walked back towards him, hips swaying. "Oh, that's a shame," she said mournfully, reaching to whisper in his ear, "I guess you'll just never get the chance…"

Before he could wonder what she meant by that, he was flying through the air until he hit a tree. The impact brought a yell of pain and confusion from him.

"It's kind of a shame," she hissed, her face twisted into a triumphant snarl, eyes flashing completely black, "You would've grown up to be so much fun to play with…"

Another wave of invisible force threw him again, into another tree.

"De… de… " he gasped for breath, winded by the impact.

"…But you're an interfering little shit, you know that?" she spoke as if he were a tiresome nuisance, "And we can't have you holding little Sammy back. He'll learn so much better without you getting in the way of his lessons."

She laughed at the look of utter panic in his eyes. "Oh, don't be so melodramatic," she waved a hand dismissively, "I won't touch a hair on the precious little darling's rather overgrown and scruffy head." She stepped forward, grabbing him by the front of his shirt. "I'm just here to kill you." He other hand closed around his throat; he began to choke. "This'll hurt less if you just relax, you idiot, fighting it will only…"

She was suddenly knocked sideways by a black and tan streak.

Dean fell bonelessly to the ground, gasping for air, his head spinning, and sat up in time to see Kali limpingly plant herself between himself and the demon-girl. The old grizzled face was drawn into a terrifying snarl.

The demon laughed as she rolled to her feet. "Oh, look, here's Rin Tin Tin!" she chuckled, waving a hand. The old dog flinched and yelped, but held her ground. The demon frowned, and waved again; the force drove the dog to her side, flanks heaving. "Sorry, Lassie," she trilled, "Me and Timmy here have unfinished business." She hauled Dean up by the shirt front again, batting his attempts to hit her away. "Now, where were we?" she asked casually, "Ah yes, I was choking the life out of you, and telling you to…"

"CHRISTO!"

The screech from behind them caused the demon to flinch. Dean turned his head in her grasp to see Sam, white faced and shaking, watching the demon with a combination of terror and determination in his eyes.

"Christo!" He shouted again. "You leave my brother alone!"

"Stop that, Sam," she said, through gritted teeth, "It's really annoying, and…"

"Christo! Christo! ChristochristoCHRISTO!" Sam shouted.

"Aaaargh!" The demon let go of Dean, who fell in a heap.

"Dean!" shrieked Sam.

Dean turned his head. "Run, Sammy," he rasped, "Run…"

"You ungrateful little bastard!" The demon humphed at him, with a positive pout. "I'm doing this for your benefit!"

"You leave my brother alone!" Sam repeated, shaking with rage as much as fear.

She narrowed her eyes. "I might not be allowed to kill you," she growled, "But if you don't shut the fuck up, I will demonstrate to you a whole world of hurt." She reached down to pick Dean up and finish the job, but let out a sudden yelp of surprise. And pain.

The old dog had dragged herself to her feet, and latched onto the demon-girl's arm with her broken yellowed teeth.

"Get off me, you stupid mutt!" she snarled, waving the other hand casually.

It had no effect.

The dog growled, and bit deeper into the demon's arm.

"What the hell…?" The possessed girl's eyes flashed black, and glared, snarling, at the old grizzled face in preparation to break the stupid old thing's neck…

And screamed.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

She was hurt, she knew that, and her chest pounded with the effort, but she'd been hurt before, and she knew that once she had hold of her prey…

Her jaws closed on the demon's arm, and she saw the moment it recognised her.

_You know me, don't you? _She used the ugly language of the Pit._ You know my Blood. And my Blood knows you. My Blood dragged you to the Pit. Maybe it was even my longSire who came for you, shredded you, tore your soul from your screaming body…_

The demon's body screamed. Her Blood could see the demon writhing within it.

_I am a Hunter's dog._ She gripped harder. _I chose my Hunter, I have Hunted._ Her Blood sang, hot and greedy. _We are savage, and fearless. We protect our Hunters. _

The demon shrieked, and wrenched. _This is not possible!_ it howled.

_You were warned, _Kali snarled at it,_ These Young are defended. I Protect them. I am a Hunter's dog. I will protect these Young. I will die for these Young. I am a Hunter's dog, and this is the way of things._

The demon renewed its efforts to escape. _You are old. Weak. Frail. Useless. You are spent. _

_Perhaps, _she agreed mildly,_ But you cannot escape me. Once the Blood is set upon prey, it never gives up. Demons, of all abominations, should know this._

_You cannot banish me! _the demon raged.

If a dog's face could have grinned, she would have done so. Red sparks crackled across her cloudy brown eyes._ I won't have to…_

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Dean! Dean!" Sam shook his brother's arm, keeping one eye on Kali and the demon. The old dog was limping badly, bleeding, but her teeth were sunk into the girl's arm. The demon's eyes were black, and she wailed and screeched in an inhuman voice, twitching and fighting, but the dog never let go. "Dean!"

" 'M fine, S'mmy," Dean slurred, sitting up, "Jus'… run…"

"I can't," Sam told him, trying to drag him away from the dog and the demon, "Kali is holding the demon, but she can't kill it!"

"Can't kill 'em," Dean slurred again, shaking his head. "Gotta exorcise 'em, get 'em out…" his eyes crossed.

Sam grabbed at him in panic, then looked back to the dog and the demon. The old bitch clung on, but the demon fought hard. The dog went down on her haunches.

Drawing in a sobbing, frightened breath, Sam stood up, and tried to steady his voice. "Ex… exorcizamus te, omnis immundus s-spiritus…"

The demon-girl screamed, and jerked sideways, dragging Kali with her. Sam raised his voice.

"Omnis s-satanica potestas, omnis incursio…"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

She was weakening, she knew it. Her Blood burned and seethed, and gave her the determination to hold on, but her physical body was failing her. She could taste blood, her own, and her breath wheezed in her chest, painful, her heart hammering…

The demon jerked in pain as the Young began the Rite.

She dug in again, as his determination warred with his fear, eventually driving the demon's possessed body to its knees. It gave another savage jerk, and her legs gave out. Still, she clung on grimly.

_We are savage and fearless. We are savage and fearless. I am a Hunter's dog, this is the way of things…_

The demon gave another bone-jarring wrench, and she feared that not even her Blood would be enough for the Young to finish…

There was a large presence beside her, and a jaw twice the size of her own closed on the demon's arm next to hers.

_Bring down your prey, Hunter's dog, Bitch of the Blood,_ the Guardian told her.

She clenched her jaw, with a final, renewed strength. _I am a Hunter's dog. I protect. This is the way of things._

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

He tried, he really did, but he couldn't stop his voice from shaking.

"Infer-fer-nalis adversarii, omnis leg… legio," he stumbled. The demon glared at him with black eyes.

"What's the matter, Sammy?" it drawled snidely, "Cat got your tongue?"

Sam's brain blanked out on him. His mouth opened and shut a couple of times. "O-omnis congregatio," he stuttered," Et… et… et secta diabolica,"

"La plume de ma tante est dans le jardin, petit chou," the thing taunted him.

"Ergo draco maledictus…"

The demon cocked an eyebrow at him. "What was that?" she smirked. Sam gaped, and tried again.

"Draco… draco maledictus…"

The thing pulled itself upright, the old dog hanging onto it clearly weakening. "Oh, Sammy," she said sadly, grinning, "Looks like somebody hasn't been paying attention toAAAAAAAAARGH!"

"Ergo, draco maledicte, et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te." As the slosh of holy water hit her in the face, Rumsfeld shot past him, and grabbed hold of the demon next to Kali, as Bobby's voice rang out like the wrath of gods. "Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare…"

Sam clung to Dean in terror as the demon's meatsuit jerked, and screamed, and finally collapsed.

"Vade, Satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis! Humiliare sub potenti manu dei, contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine,quem inferi tremunt!"

A long column of wailing black smoke shot out of the teenager's mouth, and speared back down into the ground.

Dean sat up, coughing. "The power of Christ compels you," he wheezed.

"Dean!" Sam howled, falling to his knees and clutching at his big brother.

"Told you 'm all right, Sammy," Dean drawled, smirking in a slightly cross-eyed fashion. "You know I don't think I'll ever try skinny-dipping."

"It was a demon," Sam told him in a wobbly voice, "It was a demon, Dean, I saw its eyes go black!"

"It sure was," Dean agreed, rubbing the side of his head, "But you sent it away! You exorcised it! Way to go, squirt!"

"I didn't really," Sam mumbled. "I messed it up. Bobby finished it." He looked around for Bobby.

He was kneeling beside Kali, while Rumsfeld nudged her and whined.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

If dogs could swear, she would've done so. _That really hurt_, she groused to herself. It would've been a tough Hunt if she had been in her prime, but at her age, it had taken a lot out of her. She'd just lie here a minute, get her breath back…

When she felt a bit better, she climbed to her feet, and shook herself. She did feel better, she thought, taking a deep breath. That awful pain in her chest was gone. The sun had come out again – it eased the ache in her old bones, and the brighter light made everything less fuzzy, more distinct…

She realised that she had left her matter when she turned to see the smaller Young bent over her, his face buried in her ruff, sobbing heartbrokenly, while the older one determinedly gulped back tears. It made sense, she thought – her body had been old, and frail, and she suddenly felt… better. Strong. _Right._

"Kali, Kali…"

She nudged reassuringly at them, recognising that they wouldn't feel her, but wanting them to not be sad. They were pups, and would learn from this experience. All living creatures left their matter; it was the way of things. And now, she felt strong again, strong, and young, her Blood singing in her ears…

For a moment, freed from the bounds of time that affect the living, she took a moment to look at the two Young, with her eyes and her Blood…

And she _saw._

She nudged them again, wanting to console them._ Be happy! A Hunter's dog will find you, _she thought excitedly,_ Such a dog! It was unthinkable… you will call the Blood of the Pit to your Hunt! Oh, and he will sire a litter, and his dog-pup will choose you, and he will pass the Blood to his line. Such a line! His pups will be Hunter's dogs. A new line of the Blood. They will be magnificent! They will be savage and fearless. He will protect you, protect his Hunters, and his dog-pup will follow him, and then a bitch-pup after that, and they will take the Blood of the Pit to the Hunt, this will be the way of things…_

She chased her tail around a couple of times in excitement, as she had done as a pup…

_Kali… Kali!_

She stopped, cocked her head. It wasn't the Young calling her name, she realised.

_Kali!_

It was a voice she hadn't heard for a long time…

_Kali! Come!_

He was there, right there, on the other side of the clearing, smiling and laughing at her, down on one knee and arms held wide, the way he had called her when she was just a pup, learning the basic lessons she would need to Hunt.

_Come! Come home! Good girl!_

Barking joyfully, she set off, not looking back, feeling new strength pour into her lithe body as she ran as fast as she could to reunite with her Alpha…

Wildhunt Indian Summer, kennel named Kali, went home.


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Sam was still sniffling as the pyre burned down to ashes. Bobby put a hand on his shoulder.

"It's not such a bad thing," he said consolingly, "She was very old, for a German Shepherd, and _really_ old for a Hunter's dog. Her health wasn't good. She wouldn't have seen out next winter."

"She died saving us," Sam mumbled miserably.

"Of course she did," Bobby told him, "She was a Hunter's dog. That's what they do. Now, she's finished her job, and she's at peace. She would've been happy about that. It aint right for a Hunter's dog to waste away from old age."

"Do dogs go to Heaven?" The big wet hazel eyes bored into Bobby.

"Of course they do, son," Bobby reassured him, "All dogs go to Heaven. Especially good ones. _Especially_ especially Hunters' dogs. She'll have gone straight to Charlie, her Hunter. She'll be happy as a bimbo in a mall."

"She's officially a canine hero, like Rumsfeld," Dean reminded him. When the demon had left and the girl had revived – she actually was the granddaughter of his neighbours – Bobby had told her she'd fallen into the swimming hole, presumably after going for a walk and getting sunstroke, and the dogs had pulled her out. That would certainly explain the bite marks, and the strange hallucinations she'd had. Her grandparents had been tearfully relieved, and wanted to nominate both dogs for animal bravery medals. "She saved Carrie, too, by hanging on to her body so it could be exorcised."

"Will Rumsfeld miss her?" asked Sam.

"I think he will for a little while," said Bobby, "But I think he knew she was old." As if in response, Rumsfeld nudged his big square head under Sam's hand, and grinned doggily at him. "Disgustinig animal," Bobby snorted, "You are a complete slut for a pat on the head."

"How did she know there was a demon?" Dean wanted to know. Bobby frowned, and paused before he answered.

"The dogs of Wildhunt are a very specialised bloodline," he told them. "They were bred from a bitch called Arcadia, around eighty years ago. Part wolf, probably, from the description. The way the story goes, she was always half-savage at the best of times, and one day, on a Hunt, she, er, pretty much forced herself on a Hellhound."

Dean's eyes went wide, and he snorted with laughter.

Sam's face screwed up. "What does that mean?"

"Well, it means that she… had puppies that were half-Hellhound," Bobby went on smoothly, as Dean made obscene gestures behind Sam's back. "It's only a story, but the dogs of that bloodline have always been particularly fine Hunter's dogs. Good instincts, no fear at all, all the things you want in a dog on the Hunt."

"Do you think Daddy would let us have a Hunter's dog, Dean?" Sam wondered hopefully.

"No, squirt," Dean told him, sad to see Sam's face fall, "There's not enough room in the car for us as it is. Besides, how much would a great big dog eat? It'd cost a fortune to keep. And we'd make you pick up the dog crap."

"You don't go pickin' a Hunter's dog, anyway, Sam," Bobby added with a smile, "The dog picks its Hunter."

"I'd like a dog like Kali, one day," Sam said quietly.

"Well, if there's a dog out there for you, he or she will find you," Bobby assured him.

Sam didn't seem convinced. "How?" he wanted to know. "How is a puppy supposed to find me?"

"They just do," Bobby shrugged, "It's the way of things. Now, it's been a tough day for everybody. Why don't we go inside and have some ice-cream?" He offered. "Ice-cream always makes me feel better after a tough day. And I'm going to need some more information about the Vampire Pirates. For planning later lessons. For instance, what do they wear?"

"Not togas," Dean commented, "Pirates can't wear togas - you can't go swinging around on ropes wearing a toga."

"Not togas," agreed Sam, "Leotards."

"Er... leotards?" Bobby's eyebrows shot up.

"Leotards," repeated Sam firmly. "They're the Vampire Pirates Aerobics Team."

They left the cooling pyre and went inside for ice-cream. Including Rumsfeld.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Before they left two weeks later, Sam went to say goodbye to Kali, and thank her one more time. The rosemary that Lawnzilla had launched Dean into had not recovered from its Close Encounter Of The Mowing Kind, and Bobby had pulled it up. But it was in flower, so Sam picked a few pieces and laid the small bunch on the ground where the pyre had been.

"Thank you, Kali," he whispered, "I hope there's cookies for you in Heaven." Then he heard his father call him, and ran to get into the car.

There had been more rain, and the ground was damp. Rosemary is a tenacious plant; one of the small green twigs took root, fed by the ashes of the pyre. Bobby never noticed until it was a small shrub. He was going to pull it up, but Rumsfeld took to it as a favourite spot to sit, shielded from the harshest sun in summer, then catching the last rays of the weak light in winter, so he left it.

It grew lush and green, and the first time it flowered, the flowers were not pale blue, but blood red.

Eventually, Bobby took a cutting to replace the conveniently located shrub that Dean had destroyed when he was just a kid. It was unexpectedly potent in various potions and spells, especially those that were intended to counter any sort of demonic influence. Sam spent a lot of his pseudo-retirement researching its peculiarly useful properties, constantly finding new things it could do.

It was still there and thriving, a wild, bushy, spreading almost-tree, when the place no longer operated as Singer Salvage. All the dogs who ever lived there for any length of time found it to be a most agreeable spot to sit and rest. Their Alpha would sometimes pause when working on his favourite car, an old, rumbling black thing that all his dogs loved to ride in, and would sit with them; the old man would groan as he lowered himself to the ground with his cane. Sometimes their Second, his brother, the tall one who smelled of paper, joined them.

Pups especially liked to play there. They would run around the gnarled stem, and weave in and out of the foliage, pouncing on one another, yipping, stalking, squealing and wrestling, bright eager eyes occasionally flashing crackles of red like glowing coals. Then they'd all suddenly run out of energy, the way puppies do, and flop down against their Dam, who would nuzzle them, and nurse them, and tell them stories as they yawned and dozed.

_There was a Beast of the Blood, Full Blood of the Pit, and he was called to the Hunt. He was called by the Righteous Man and the Wise Man, and he joined their Pack. He died in the Hunt, for that is the way of things for a Hunter's dog, but before then he took a bitch, and she whelped his pups, two bitch-pups and a dog-pup. That dog-pup was my longSire, your longSire, and he gave the Blood to his line, and made us Hunter's dogs. We are bold, and loyal, and fearless, and we protect our Hunters, for this is the way of things._

**THE END**

* * *

><p>Right, another plot bunny stomped. Something a bit different for me, but I'm glad that it seems to have given the Denizens, visitors, lurkers and droppers-in a bit of entertainment. I'll be back when I have a bit of time to deal with another plot bunny *shakes fist at the Shameless Shooers Of Plot Bunnies In My Direction*. There's actually one hopping around under the desk right this second. I can't hear exactly what it's whispering to me just yet, so I'll have to leave it alone to mature a bit, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I heard it mumble 'Gratuitous Winchester Nudity'... I'll let you know.<p> 


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